The Allusory Meaning of the Definition
by Ammonite
Summary: Lee Adama is a prisoner of the rebel Cylon ship, only they do not ask the expected questions. What is love? What does it mean to be human?
1. Chapter 1

Lee Adama is dreaming of vanilla and ginger. The smell is so warm and comforting that his lips form a smile and tears of gratitude seep from under his lashes. He's in their kitchen on Rosemary Avenue where a yellow sun is shining past the curtained window right onto his brother's dark hair, and Zak's taking a cookie from Lee's hand. Zak's wearing his favorite red tee-shirt with "Nuclear Candi" blazing across the front in orange dayglo lettters. The counter tops and checkered table cloth are the green of leaves that first morning in spring when you take your bike out after winter and ride until your butt is numb and your legs turn to rubber.

Maybe it will be one of the good days, he thinks as he comes around enough to realize where he really is, and that the sweetness in his mouth is merely a fanciful trick of the mind. Some part of him is still there, or part of there is here; he feels it and doesn't want to open his eyes and lose the little piece that's left. Not just yet . . . it's already gone.

"You like that, don't you." A sighing murmur in his left ear; her warm breath nearly tickles. It is a her. Kara? No . . . didn't he leave her on the Galactica just . . . when . . . hours ago? Yesterday? Dee, as well, all of them celebrating and waving farewell.

He smiles, a warmth cruising up his body; everyone, even his father. It had been a little strange, saying goodbye to the past like that, not knowing what was ahead, for practically the first time in his life, and . . . wait . . .

I was thinking, that voice, why can't --

"You can open your eyes now." Low, throaty, in his other ear.

I can. Hadn't realized. Of course, I should have, shouldn't I? He drags his eyes open. That's what it feels like . . . sleepy, when you don't want to wake up.

It is still rather dark, and he can't see the far end of the room. In fact, he can't see the walls on either side. Looking down, he sees his bare feet on a dark floor of, possibly metal, only it is warm; the room is warm, only there is no hum or vibration of a ship. It doesn't smell like a ship. Isn't that where he should be? And where are his shoes? Above his feet begin what look like sweat pants, only they aren't his. He would know. Surely he shouldn't be here; he was supposed to be somewhere in his suit. This is all wrong. Definitely wrong when he tries to step forward and can't. He's attached to the wall behind. With something hard, probably metal, and his wrists are sore. Only they hadn't been until he thought of it. The whole thing is very troubling. He'd rather go back to the dream.

Strong yet tender fingers begin kneading his neck, his shoulder. It feels so wonderful his eyes drift closed again. The voice is in his ear. "It's all right Lee. Whenever I am here you'll be fine. I'll always take care of you."

That's nice.

She's moving; he can hear the swish swish of soft clothing and opens his eyes again to see her only inches away. Gods, she is beautiful. Her skin is flawless; lips glistening; blue eyes searching. Her hands caress his cheeks, so warm and gentle. "You must learn to trust me. We have much to learn from one another. You have to know I want to keep you from what is going to happen, but they won't let me. I'll keep trying. Remember that. Don't ever give up. I'll come back, and I'll keep trying to help you. Will you remember?"

She is familiar. He wants to please her; the look on her face - it seems important that he agree, that he remember. "Yes."

She leans forward and kisses him lightly but firmly on the lips, her honey-blonde hair falls forward to brush his temples.

He watches her walk into the darkness, blue dress swaying, no sound of a hatch, nothing.

Remember, remember, only it's hard to retain a thought. She looked so familiar. It's because . . . because . . . . Gods, she's a cylon and he's . . . not where he's supposed to be. He can't think right; he hasn't been thinking right. He's drugged, that's why. Adrenaline, panic, three heavy, deep, fast breaths, a pull against the restraints and he drops his head.

_Use your brain, fool. The drugs must be wearing off. You're a prisoner of the Cylons. That's it; it has to be. You've been trained for this. Trained to resist drugs, too. You've got nothing to tell them. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Oh gods, I'm on a Cylon ship. How long? How long have I got? How did they do it? It doesn't matter. Don't make fool of yourself. All that matters now is how you go. They probably think I know a lot because I'm Adama's son. Because I was a commander. A cag. Gods. How long will it go on? Admit how scared you are. That's first. Damned scared. I'm no frakkin' hero. Remember your training. Say nothing. Don't even start. Don't get smart. Say nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Scream all you want, but say nothing._

Her kiss . . . it was ginger and vanilla.

* * *

Colonel Saul Tigh hesitates before before tapping his calloused knuckles on the hatch to Admiral Adama's quarters. He grits his teeth when he hears the gruff "enter" and steps within. He's been the bearer of so much bad news to this man and wonders how they manage to remain good friends in spite of it. Maybe because there is no one else.

The red pattern in the rug glows softly in the dim light of the overhead. The Admiral sits with his hands on the edge of his desk, arms stiff and straight as if to push it away, or perhaps to steady himself. His face is all sharp highlights and deep crags in the light of the desk lamp. Tigh refuses to look at the hands that are likely clutching there, perhaps too tightly.

"What have you found?" His chin is tucked; his eyes glare, daring the colonel to disappoint him.

"The four who traded guard duty the last three days swear nothing was said about Lee's departure within the cylon's hearing. Nothing was ever discussed in the brig at all."

"You believe them? One hundred percent?"

"I put those four on duty myself. You know how I feel about that thing, Bill. I have the utmost faith in those men."

"Even if she did know, how could she possibly have contacted them?" Colonel Tigh hadn't realized President Roslin was there, silent until now, in the chair in the shadows to the left of the desk. "Wouldn't they have to be in the same sector? Surely we would have known if they were."

"It's possible a raider could have escaped detection. Unlikely, but possible." The colonel didn't like admitting that, but so many civilian ships had to be spread out, and there were only a limited number of pilots out there at any one time in as many patched up vipers and raptors as could be kept flying. Luck had been on their side, so far.

"They attacked only to take that one raptor without destroying it. They knew exactly who was in it, and she's the only one who could have told them." Adama stares at the photograph on his desk, then up at the colonel. "I want her airlocked immediately."

Roslin is on her feet. "You can't! I won't allow it!"

"She is a danger to this fleet!"

"It's not the fleet you're worried about, it's revenge! You don't know it's her, you're only guessing. She cares about Hera, more than anything. It's why she's here; she knows the child is only safe with us. Why would she do anything to endanger her? She would no more do such a thing than Athena would!"

Adama grips the desk even harder, maybe as hard as his lips are now pressed together in a grim down turned line - the voice that puckers his subordinates' under drawers. "You dare speak to me of revenge."

She takes a breath, folds her hands and sits. Speaks calmly this time. "Well, it takes one to know one, doesn't it."

Adama releases the desk, sits back in his chair, takes a deep breath of his own. Tigh has seen him do this before - gather himself, the forced calm while the mind furiously takes routes not previously explored. "Obviously, then, you suspect some other Cylon activity on at least one of our ships."

"Obviously. She has already told me there are five more and she believes they are nearby. Only I had the impression they were not like the others. They may not want the human race wiped out."

The colonel is breathing slow and deep, trying to make his heart rate normal.

"They merely want my son." One hand lies on the desk, a pen grasped tightly, thumb rubbing its tip. He looks from it to her face.

"I don't know, Bill. I don't think she does either. But I'll talk to her. There is something . . . ." She gives him a look, a quirk of her mouth, lowers her head, raises it. "Anyway, let me try; it can't hurt."

* * *

Colonel Tigh had managed to get both Tory and Chief Tyrol alone, and both of them denied any contact with the enemy.

The enemy, he thinks, as he knocks back the ambrosia in the privacy of his quarters. What if the enemy is us, is me? Tyrol had brought it up, that they might not remember, and he had debunked it. Of course, he had. Only now, back in his quarters and alone, he can't help but think it. Anders is gone now, there is always that possibility. But the man was so worried about being a Cylon already, practically a nervous wreck when he'd thought the raider had discovered him. _No, if it was anyone, Tyrol and I are the first to know the schedules. Exactly what raptor is going where, when and who is on it. There is a part of me who is glad to see the last of Bill Adama's son. That boy has been a flea in my pants since he'd come aboard with his holier-than-thou attitude. Let alone that time he put a gun . . . holy gods._ Another shot of ambrosia that burns going down. _I couldn't have, could I? Surely not. I am an officer in Colonial Fleet!_

_A Cylon; I'm a Cylon._

_Never. I wouldn't do that to Bill. Never. _He sits, one hand grasping the half-full bottle, the other around the empty glass.

* * *

Its a small, yet elegant, room, covered in the luxurious gold brocades and rich velvets of a sumptuous bygone era. The light is low and unseen except for the glow from a small globe on a circular table where the three sit on deep pillows.

"This is a little . . . eccentric . . . don't you think?" he says.

"We find the contrast provocative and rather comforting at times," she says.

"We aren't here to discuss the decor." Their third member shifts impatiently on her pillow.

"You should cultivate patience, Six. It's all going to happen as it has been written, as it has happened before. You should know." He sits cross-legged to her left; his hands lie at ease on his thighs.

"I am tired of hearing that, as though your part should be enough for the rest of us. You believe a human loves you, yet you cannot tell us what love is. Love is defined as strong affection, tenderness and devotion based on common interests. What part of that applies to you and the human, Kara Thrace? She killed you over and over, yet you say you love her." Her hands are fists on the table. There are deep lines between her eyes, and the muscles around her chin are taut, yet the words are clear and controlled.

"We believe God wants us to produce children, and the only way we can do it is with humans. Our one hope, the only child we had, is gone. Gone because she could not survive without the love of her true mother. We have learned she would never have survived at all without the love of the two that had made her. We still do not understand this love or why it is so important, or how it has come between us and our own kind." She peers at the globe. "Now we are in the midst of a civil war, and you tell me to be patient."

He places a hand on one of hers. "Love cannot be defined, only experienced. I understand your need for clarification. But do you really believe you can learn anything from the prisoner?"

"I don't know; I have to try."

"To adapt him, reprogram him according to what we have learned, that's one thing, but this other, I doubt it is possible."

"You said you would not interfere, as long as I played my part."

"I only express doubt. If God has placed him in our hands for the reason you say, then anything is possible."

"Good." She turns to her twin, whose hair is lighter and twisted severely on top of her head. "Can you do this again?"

"Certainly. You know how repulsive I found it originally. I admit it has been difficult . . . wondering why God wants us to have children with creatures who would do such things to their own kind. This love you speak of, perhaps it is the explanation. I hope so, for I wish this to be the last time. The process has become too intriguing, and I find myself looking forward to it far too much."

The first reaches her hands across the table and they join hands on either side of the globe. "Sister, I, too, wish some other way. Only, if this be God's will, if we find what we seek, all will come right in the end. We may understand the path we are to take."

The single male watches them, their faces golden masks in the soft light of the globe. An identical tear tracks down the left cheek of each identical, beautiful mask. It is obvious they have already become contaminated by human contact, just as he has. They all have; none are immune. Why don't they see it? They believe they are going to make Adama theirs, get this information from him. But contact is like energy, it runs both directions.

Perhaps that is God's plan, as well.


	2. Chapter 2

Something wakes him. Must have drifted off, finally. His hands, then his arms and shoulders had ached from his own weight. He had tried to stand but had tired, had rested then stood again. Had repeatedly swallowed his own spit until there was no more and would do anything for water. He had wanted to sleep then, or pass out, only each time it seemed he had, he bolted awake, heart pounding, to dark silence.

His tongue feels swollen; he can't feel his hands and fingers. He has no idea how much time has passed, hours, a day. He is so thirsty, still, he has to pee so bad it hurts. There is no point in holding it because they aren't going to let him use a head, are they. It's part of making him feel helpless, no longer human. The relief letting go is exquisite. Warmth turning cold. Frak them anyway; he nearly smiles. He is thinking - logically? So no one has drugged him again in his sleep, probably. Don't count on anything. Suspect everything. _Move, get up, your hands are asleep. If only I still were asleep and didn't wake up._

He gets his feet flat on the floor and pushes. He seems to weigh more, but he's probably just getting weaker. It's not far, only a few inches to get his shoulders even with his hands, so he's not hanging from the, the cuffs, whatever, around his wrists and frak the feeling's coming back, tingling and buzzing into his fingertips, he makes fists, releases, over and over.

A distant sound coming closer. Centurions. First the metal clang, clang of them, two of them coming fast right at him out of the dark and there's nothing to be done but listen to his own heart pounding in his ears.

Someone else is over there on the edge of sight and he focuses on the figure while the silver hulks are on either side unsnapping the locks he couldn't reach with his own fingers. He smells them, part oil, part something else and for a second considers fighting but knows it's foolish, and hard-edged appendages grasp his arms and pick him up like a baby between them, barely letting his toes drag across the floor. One, two, three, he's on a stool, bent over a table, his arms locked down on its top. Clank, clank, clank, they are somewhere behind him.

_This is it. _ His heart is racing. _Calm down, breathe. They want you off kilter._

The beautiful Cylon walks toward him, only her hair is lighter and on top of her head now. She holds a clear glass of water in her hand and holds it to his mouth.

"Drink."

It could be--

"It's not drugged. I will never lie to you. You must afford me the same courtesy."

Why should he believe her? The water, so cool and wet, touches his closed, cracked lips.

"If I wanted to drug you, I wouldn't need this water to do it."

That's true. He lifts his chin and lets it trickle down his parched throat. It is better than the finest ambrosia, the most aged brandy. When he has emptied the glass, she slowly walks around the edge of the table, sits down opposite and carefully places the glass upon it. He notices then the harsh light shining down from above onto the other objects that sit on the satin metal top before him. Tongs, gleaming flechettes and needles in various sizes, an already glowing hot brazier, clear hoses, rolls of tape and a small machine with dials and silver clips attached. He forces his eyes away, only to catch hers.

"You will hear only the truth from me, Lee Adama. You believe, you hope, you can withstand what will happen. You and I are going down a road together. It is a very long road, as long as it needs to be. You will not be able to leave it. No one is coming to rescue you. Death is the only way off, and you do not have that option; I will see to that. Being who you are, you will suffer at the beginning, before you realize there is no point. But you will realize, eventually. Everyone does.

"As many roads do, ours will start gradual, only to get more difficult the more you refuse its path. It is a simple path, and it is this. You will pay every attention to me and do as I say. When you obey, you will be rewarded. When you refuse, you will be punished. We begin with anticipation, as you see. Do you understand?"

_No questions about codes or anything else of Galactica? What the hell?_

"Since we have just begun . . . I expect an answer. Do you understand."

_She's trying to confuse me. Say nothing, nothing._

She takes a needle, hot from the brazier, pulls the little finger from his right hand straight, puts the tip of needle beneath the nail and pushes, all the way.

Hot liquid fire only he can't get it off! Kicks beneath the table and gasps a choked sound but doesn't scream. _Frak . . . Frak!_

She has balanced another needle on the edge of the brazier. Of course, there's some kind of blue cover on the end she holds so it doesn't burn her. It's still burning him, sticking out from under his nail like that, only not so bad now the first surge is over. Only there's a complaining nerve right across the top of his hand and up his arm.

She stands, slinks (it's the only word) around the table and to his left side. She pets his head, gods, brushes the hair back from his face. "I don't like doing this Lee. I wish you wouldn't make me do this. I have asked no secrets. No one will die or even be injured if you answer. You will not be a traitor to your people." She is in front of him again. "It is such a simple thing."

She sits, picks up the needle and the second finger on his right hand. "Please. This one time I will even say, please. Do you understand?"

He can't. If he starts, who knows where it will end?

This time she pushes slowly, agonizingly so, and he still does not scream, but a low sound comes from between his gnashed teeth and beads of sweat appear on his forehead.

She places another needle onto the brazier and sits back. "I expected you would force me to go through all the lower levels. But one should never rush; it's not in the best interests of anyone." She plucks the needle delicately in her fingers and begins again

His head is flat on the table between his arms; he is slick with sweat. The water he drank is likely drained from him. If she'd just leave him alone; he'd give anything to be left in here alone. He had finally screamed when she clamped the tongs on his first nail and pulled. His shredded fingers are all bleeding into his hair now, every last one, and what comes next?

She pulls his head up by the hair, and she's holding another glass of water.

"Sit up." She starts him along by pulling harder.

"Do you want this?"

Gods.

She tips it ever so slowly inches from his face. It dribbles into his lap.

"Do you want this."

Closes his eyes. Feels it dribble, cold and wet across his stomach, on, on down. Stops. His fingers, his hands throb hot.

She's doing something with his arm. He looks. She's swabbing, can smell the alcohol, a needle, a prick, tape, warmth flows in. There's nothing to be done; he can't move. She pours the stuff over his fingers, drawing a raspy growl from his throat. His head is grabbed from behind; she closes his nose and pours something down and he coughs. It's not water, but it is soothing, a little, smells camphorous.

She sits before him once again, her white hands on the table.

He's very tired, and the throbbing pain makes his mind fuzzy.

"Pay attention."

Why should he? What does it matter? His eyes close; his head droops.

A slap that nearly knocks him senseless, only it definitely wakes him up.

"Shortly you will be quite aware," she says. I have given you something to keep you alive and take care of the loss of liquids, although it will not resolve your thirst. We have synthesized a chemical that heightens sensitization, particularly of the nerve endings. You have been given this chemical, along with another that affects emotional centers in the brain. You should be feeling their effects almost immediately.

"I know a lot about you, Lee, more than most of your human associates. We have access to records on Caprica, records of your family, personal and military. Records it is unlikely that no one human ever sees together in their entirety.

"You see how open I am with you? I hide nothing. Yet you refuse me. You think I enjoy doing these things? I learned them from human records. I do nothing that wasn't done first by one human to another. You think your race deserves to live more than ours. I do this only to find out why."

She stands again, and he hears the soft flutter of her black, satin trousers as she steps around the table. The fire in his hands brings tears to his eyes, still, he hears her breathe as she bends next to his right ear. "Do you think she ever loved you . . . as much as Zak?"

All breath is out of him, he blinks, takes air in again. Frak her. Frak her, frak her, frak her! Her hand is next to his, so graceful, one long finger reaches under his wrist, light as a feather runs up the underside of his arm and sends an ache so piercingly sharp he moans.

"The stakes are now higher. From here on you must answer, 'yes, ma'am,' or 'no ma'am.'" Her words roar in his ear. "Shall I stop? You have only to say, 'yes ma'am,' and I will reward you."

She shifts behind him, rustling, shushing, the very air moves.

He can only moan when she does the same to his other arm.

"Very well. We shall continue."

* * *

"The President will see you now."

Vice President, Thomas Zarek, steps into the office of the President of the Twelve Colonies - and don't trip, he thinks, again, as he always does when coming through a hatch in public. He should be used to it by now. He is used to it, really, but the one time he doesn't remind himself will be the one time he stumbles. Wouldn't that be one for President Roslin or the cameras. He nearly grins to himself; actually, it might be useful at the right time and place.

"Tom," she says over the top of her glasses, twirling a pen between both hands.

"Madam President." He smiles a little, not too much, and holds out a small box. "I found more of that herbal tea you like."

She takes it and smiles. "I knew I had at least one good reason for wanting you as my vice president."

"Only one?"

"I'm having difficulty finding more these days."

"In that case . . ." He holds forth another box. "I heard about the Tyrols. Perhaps you could give that to the admiral when next you see him. It's that smokey stuff he prefers."

"You do have quite a pipeline don't you. We've only just prepared a press release on her death."

"Knowing what is going on is part of my job, Madam President."

"Sit down and stop that Madam President guff."

He smiles and sits.

"You know very well why I have asked you here, don't you."

"I have a pretty good idea."

"You didn't really think I was going to believe it was all Eugenia Innes's idea to stall me on the judicial appointments, did you?

"May I use your line here and say, 'no comment?'"

"You may say it all you want. It is very obvious to me why you wanted Lee Adama as the member from Caprica. It must have been particularly disappointing when the Cylons snatched him out from under your nose."

"One might say it was a tragedy all around."

"Of course, it was. And I pray that by some miracle he will be returned to us."

"Do you really."

She turns her head just a little, squints at him. "You think I have become very hard, don't you." She has both hands clasped in her lap. "I have, Tom. I have to be hard, just as Admiral Adama has to be hard. I can't afford not to be if we are going to survive. You have no idea how often I wish someone else would take over this job and let me lie down and die in peace. You may say it is my own fault for trusting no one else, but there it is."

She places her hands on the desk and leans forward. "Surely you realize how dangerous a religious uprising would be at this juncture?"

"Laura, if you give people religious freedom, there won't be anything to fight about."

She sits back. "Dear gods, you do sound like Lee Adama now. Haven't you come a little far for that sort of idealistic nonsense? Some of the most vicious wars in our history were over religion."

He leans over the desk now, a hand on its surface. "Because people weren't given that freedom."

They are both over the desk now. "They can have all the freedom they want once we are safe and free of the Cylons." She says it with all the force she has, which takes everything out of her these days. It takes everything she's got to take a breath, force a grim smile and keep her hand from shaking as she sits back.

His dark eyes soften, he sits back, as well. "You probably won't believe this. If we voted today, I'd still want you as president."

"Isn't that nice. I'm not sure I'd run."

"You would."

"You think I'm some sort of martyr?"

"You believe you are the one meant to lead us; you believe you are right."

"Holy gods, and you are my vice president." She's grinning.

"Checks and balances, Laura. Which is why--"

"you snaked me on the judicial appointments. And I foolishly thought I was going to get your conniving mind to work for me."

"I have to think of the future, Laura. Consider - do you want a president generations after you to have that kind of power?"

"Of course I am thinking of the present. We may not have a future if we don't do this now."

He puts his hands in his lap and takes an audible breath. "We're back to that, then. Is that the kind of future we want? Is that what we have been fighting and suffering and dying for? Is that what we want for our children?"

"You prefer death? The end of humanity?"

"I prefer the hope of something better. Yes." He blinks once and meets her eyes across the desk. They look at one another, seconds pass, she leans forward and picks up a pen. He looks at his hands, stands and quietly leaves the room.

The president places an elbow on the desk and, head in hand, closes her eyes with a sigh. If she concentrates, she can feel the soothing vibrations of the engines beneath her feet, can almost feel the air circulating, can hear the hum. One never notices it any longer, it's so much a part of life; it is life. It will likely be all she knows of life until the end. Life is so precious. You do anything you can to hang onto it. You could be down in the muck and you will hang on. Later, when you are safe, you can worry about beauty and morality and all the rest. But first you have to live.


	3. Chapter 3

Father I am sorry I can't you were always stronger she never loved either of us only my brother I see him best small and laughing in the grass to hold onto him to stay but I can't she won't let me it's cold so cold please please let me stay I can't do this any more Mother please only this once just this one time don't do this let me be, I'm sorry I'm so sorry I didn't mean to, please. Your pretty yellow hair the way it falls and glows in the light when you sit in the window I creep close to reach up to touch only I must not - do you know of my empty hands how they hurt you are destroying me there is nothing left but the cold darkness to wrap around me wrap it close and hard to keep you out keep it out keep it out, please no more

Let me be

Endless

Wracked, razor-edged pain

I am . . .

I am

In the sharp misery again where that voice won't let me be

"It is time to use the mind God has given you. What is the point? To prove you are some kind of hero? To prove you can go on? To prove you play a game better than I? Is your ego so large?"

A game

Ego

"Did you love her in spite of it?"

Raw. Cool liquid dribbling.

"Did you?"

A choked whisper, "Yes."

"Yes ma'am."

"Yes ma'am."

Her cool hand stroking, a tiny added hurt barely noticed and there is warmth, such warmth from within than banishes pain and renders grateful tears.

"Well done." Those cruel hands are so comforting now, holding, caressing. She kisses his face. He is being lifted into something soft and warm. Being taken care of. Everything is being taken care of.

His lids terror open a gasp pulling up against sheets in a bed.

She's there, sitting, watching, only . . . it's not her, quite, it's the one with darker hair, a little, the first one from . . . then, so long ago, seems like years.

"You're safe, for now," she says, a hand reaches for his arm; he jerks away; the hand stops mid-air. Her mouth is slightly open, lips shiny, eyes . . . pleading and . . . hurt, that's it; she looks hurt. How dare she - that he can still feel anger is a relief.

Something like a cool necklace . . . no, more like a small metal collar around his neck. Leads are taped to his temples and over his chest. He would rip them off, only his hands are bound in white gauze. There is no pain, or there is, but it is distanced, like his fear.

He let go, didn't he. He must have or he wouldn't be here.

"Lee."

That voice. A little different. Not much. He'd know it anywhere. He'd know it in hell.

"Lee. Look at me. Please."

It's the inflection that's different. Not as demanding, Not nearly. He wants to ignore her, one small victory. Only it feels childish. Ego. That's it. That's what it was . . . ego. He had given it up; a small price to pay. You never could entirely, but . . . .

He lets his head turn her way, meets her pleading eyes. This must be another trick, but he'll go with it because he's too tired to fight right now.

"I am sorry. I never wanted this to happen, to go so far. We do not always agree on how to proceed. Even my sisters and I do not always agree as we used to, as we should." She places both hands carefully on her thighs, straightens a little in the chair; her face becomes smooth and calm.

"You will have another day to recover, then the second phase will begin. I wanted to talk with you before then."

Second phase? Of course it wasn't over. Of course not.

"How lo--" a rasp, a cough, she holds water to his lips and he drinks until it is empty.

"You have been unconscious and healing for fifty-six hours."

"How long here, on this . . . ship."

She puts the empty glass on the table nearby, folds her hands, looks at him. "Twenty-one days."

He stares at his gauze-wrapped hands. That means seventeen days, give or take hours, that . . . including nights, constant, nearly so; it seemed longer . . . forever. Thinking back, it's hardly real. Only if he tries to remember, his stomach begins to roil. Recalls the utmost indignity of soiling himself when the shock was so bad his body couldn't contain it. Of retching when there was nothing to give up. Beyond anything he could ever have imagined, when he begged the gods in whom he had never believed for the release of death.

He should feel . . . bad. A failure. He had given in at the end. Only he is relieved. He thinks of all the years he tried to be what his father wanted, all the years he struggled to be the best in school, best at the Academy, to be the son of whom his father would be proud. After that it was to prove something to himself in spite of his last name. He had only recently decided to no longer follow that path. Now he feels he has let go of the rest, of some presumption he hadn't realized he was hanging onto.

He lies back against the headboard and lets out a long breath, closes his eyes. Amazing. Is this sense of release, of a burden being lifted, fleeting or will it last? If he understood why, perhaps . . . or it's drugs, again. A euphoric or something like. He should have known, and opens his eyes.

She is still sitting there, hands folded in her lap, watching.

"You've drugged me . . . again." It's hard to get the words formed and out, raspy, an unused voice, except for screaming.

"Only for the pain, and nutritive substances."

"You really think I believe . . . anything?"

"Then why ask? I"m telling you the truth. I always will."

"Then tell me . . . you are here now, instead of her."

"I could not come until you had acquiesced. But we do not have the time to be kind, to wait. I want to help you as much as I can."

"Help me." Anger again. Maybe he's not drugged, after all. "Then leave. Get out." The last so harsh it makes him cough through the medication in his chest. A reminder, as if he'd needed one, gods.

She looks at him. He didn't really think it would work. Only she actually stands and slowly leaves the room, walks through a large opening in the wall some distance beyond. So much room in these basestars, no hatches, no hum of engines, nothing. Only an unusual faint smell, barely noticed, and he's so damn tired, going to sleep, which is so very nice, only what will he wake up to?

* * *

Battlestar Galactica is mainly shadow and soft, interrupted light. It takes energy they can't afford to keep her bright as in days long past. Besides, all that brightness would likely reveal her many scars and wrinkles, the numerous places where the paint has peeled, the cracks in her armor, the scuffs in her halls. The brig is one of the darkest areas: light on any prisoner, light to keep the guards awake and see who might be approaching. President Laura Roslin is one of two people they would let by without reporting to the individual who is already inside with this particular prisoner. She stands silently in the shadow against the wall at the side of the doorway. She considered going to the viewing room upstairs and listening from there, but she might miss something. At her age and position, secretly spying on other people's conversations like this - it's ridiculous. Only considering these two, she can't resist. Colonel Tigh, of all people, huddled with Caprica Six.

"God forgives all those who ask for his forgiveness."

"I didn't believe at the time; I don't believe this nonsense now."

"If you truly thought it was nonsense, you wouldn't be here."

It was easier to hear what came next. "I don't know. How am I supposed to know."

"You keep coming back to me. Why do you keep coming back?"

He stands. Paces. "I don't know that either. Something's driving me."

"Perhaps it is God."

"No. That's not it. It's guilt. For my wife, what I did to her. It's damn guilt for what you people made me do. This war. All of it." He started out practically yelling, and ends collapsed on the stool, head down.

She touches him, her hand on his arm, and he doesn't seem to notice. "You feel this pain and guilt for a purpose; it is God's purpose. Don't you see He wants you to come to Him? You are one of us."

Tigh is up so fast, the stool falls. "Don't say that! Don't you ever say that!" He strides from her. "Guards! Guards!"

Laura steps from the shadows as he passes. "Holy!" he exclaims. "What are you--?"

"I've come to speak with the prisoner, but it seems you have beat me to it, colonel."

"I do . . . I . . . interrogate her, it, sometimes. Keep the guards nearby. She can be dangerous. Maybe I should stay."

"That won't be necessary. I have spoken with her a few times before and have been entirely safe. I believe she is too concerned with baby Hera to be dangerous at present. Besides, you appeared to be perfectly safe with the guards well out of the way, didn't you?"

"I'm a man, a bit stronger than you, I think. More acquainted with military--"

"Yes, well, certainly, I am sure you could defend yourself from one unarmed female cylon, colonel. But, as I said, I don't think it's necessary. Excuse me."

He didn't really think she was that much of a fool, did he? She would let him have his little lie for now, in the interest of moving on. She had never trusted the man anyway, could never understand why Bill did. For the sake of old friendship, likely. Men were like that. Would turn a blind eye for the sake of an old friend. That was fine as far as it went, as long as it didn't put the fleet in harm's way. She'd better put someone onto Colonel Tigh. He appeared less stable than usual since New Caprica, the same as Chief Tyrol. Of course, the Chief had the excuse of the loss of his wife. Even Tory had had difficulty adjusting. Still, her intuition was acting up, and her intuition had never been wrong. Or it could be the drugs she was taking. Damn the things. It was so hard to tell these days - if she could even trust herself.


	4. Chapter 4

Lee awakens and finds himself alone. Follow procedure; isn't it nice how automatic the training remains. He manages to sit up and proceeds to check himself out. Why would they shave him? And there are smaller gauze wrappings around each digit, and he can move them so none are broken. There is joy in that. There is a lead attached over his heart and one over his lungs. Angry red lines, burn welts and bruises map his chest, all covered with some kind of shiny salve. They disappear under the sheet at his waist. He can feel his feet, wiggles his toes. He's not connected to anything off the bed; the leads go to a small box wrapped around his right arm. He moves his head side-to-side, around - no dizziness. He needs to find the head rather urgently; gingerly pulls the sheet aside while trying to ignore the sting, and slides his legs over the side of the bed.

She comes in, Ma'am, strides close and reaches across his shoulders. It takes everything he has not to cringe.

"It is time you are up," she says, lifting.

"I can do this," he says.

She removes her support, and he takes one sliding step before she has to grab again.

"Next time I will let you fall. Do not ever contradict me in word or action." Another step. "Well?"

_Don't be an idiot. Let go. _"Yes ma'am."

"Very good." They have come around a wall and there is a sink and a urinal with support bars, just like sickbay. Is she . . .?

"Please," he says, turning his head a little.

"Silly, as if I haven't already seen everything. Very well; you've earned it." She reaches from behind and pulls apart the catch at the front of his sleeping trousers, lets her hand, her fingers trail softly across his lower stomach, her breath caresses his right ear. His body reacts a little, betrays him; it's probably just because he has to go. He holds the pants up by pressing his wrist against them until she's gone, grabs a bar with one hand and himself with the other, and lords it stings and comes out pink so maybe his kidney's damaged or something, big surprise.

He can't close the trouser catch because of his sore, wrapped finger tips, so shuffles to the doorway, wrist pressed against the front. She is waiting there and does it for him. She takes him across the room toward two facing chairs and sits him in one. Brushes his forehead, the hair back from his face. His mother did that once or twice a very long time ago. When he was sick. He had forgotten until now.

_There is someone on the outside watching all this, someone angry and calculating and adding up for later. It's much too dangerous for him to be here right now, so he's hiding out, staying far away from the whole situation. He hopes there will be a time to return, when it will be safe, when it will make sense. If there isn't ever a time . . . no, he won't think about that; it doesn't do any good to think about that._

She sits across from him, places her right hand on his left knee. She holds her left hand out, turns it palm up so he can see the metal cuff there. "This carries a signal to the collar around your neck, which causes increasing levels of pain. If held long enough, say seven to ten seconds, the ninth level would kill you. You know the rules."

"What's this thing on my arm and these leads? "

"It monitors your heart, brain waves, etcetera. I monitor it."

"Why didn't you use this," he motions toward the collar, "in the first place?"

"There are different kinds of pain, and psychology was involved."

He looks at her face; she looks right back. Of course, psychology was involved. It doesn't even matter that he knows. It's still involved; he knows that, too. It's always part of torture. He learned that in Officer's Candidate School. Sometimes they made jokes about it, as though joking would make it less real, less likely to happen to them, less scary. Only now it is very real; it has happened to him, and he has survived it. So far. Somehow, this thing around his neck seems less scary, not as dirty as what has already occurred. But that's likely a trick of the mind. It's only going to be different. It won't show . . . probably.

"Who else did you love besides your mother?"

"I thought you knew ev--gah!" Hot fire shoots through every nerve, lifts his feet from the floor, snaps him into a curl.

"Who else?"

"Zak," a gasp, "my brother."

"And . . ."

"My father," softer, "my father."

"Was this love the same for each of them?"

Hesitation. "No."

He looks at his hands, intertwines his straight fingers, the white gauzy lumps on the ends lining up in two rows, reminding him of some song poem when he was little - fat, white sheep?

"What?" Snapped off.

"No, ma'am."

"How was it different?"

He sits up and looks at her. "I don't know. There are different kinds of love. It changes sometimes with the same person. When I was a kid I even loved a dog for a while. Kids do that, love animals."

"You never had a dog."

He stares at her, then looks at his hands again. "It wasn't mine."

"Your mother didn't like animals, did she?"

He takes a deep breath. "No . . . ma'am." _Why did I tell her about the dog? Don't volunteer anything - a mistake._

"I have seen all your medical records. You had an unusual number of accidents, even for an active boy, certainly compared to your brother. None of them coincide with any time your father was home. In fact, they seemed to happen soon after his visits. Did you love your mother all this time, Lee?"

His hands are fisted; the pain is a relief, something to focus on. She's trying to get into his head. He knew that was where this was going.

He looks at her, brows furrowed. "She drank too much, she was unhappy, she said some terrible, hurtful things, she may even have struck out once or twice, but don't stretch the truth, don't try to make it more than it was."

She watches, blinks slowly. "You really believe that, don't you. I could show you the records. I will if you need the proof. The tooth nearly lost, the cracked jaw bone, the concussion, and here," she is on her feet, fingers in his hair at the top of his head, "a scar I can feel now, one I am sure you know is there; haven't you ever wondered where it came from?"

He's up from the chair, pushes her with his forearms, can't believe she has tried such a trick and for the first time really wants to fight back and kill her with his bare hands only she is much too strong. Has him back on the chair, arms clasped tight; he remembers the collar and wonders why she hasn't used it. What he just tried should have earned a high jolt for sure only she's telling him it's all right, she's caressing one side of his face and kissing the other. His stomach rolls, so he clenches his hands to get his mind off everything but that familiar pain. Only she is crouching in front of him now, her hands on his and looking up at him.

"Don't," she says. "It's so temporary."

He swallows and lets go. How can she be like this? So changeable. It's to throw him off.

He has always wanted the truth, never shirked from it. He sees his mother's face and a hand. Closes his eyes, only the hand grows larger. He has always known; of course he has.

"What was it like to love your mother, Lee?"

She is on the chair again.

"Hard," he says.

"Tell me."

No one has ever asked him such a thing. He has never considered it. What will he say?

"She was everything, and I could never get enough of her. She was beautiful and soft. She held me, just enough to make me want more - when she was in the mood, when the mother thing got through, I guess. After Zak was born . . . ."

This is why isn't it. This is why Ma'am did those things to him, so he would say stuff like this, say anything. She had stripped him of all his defenses.

"When she was happy, she sang. We loved that. It meant everything was going to be good. Our lives depended upon her and how she was doing. She would get down on the floor, play games and laugh, dress us up and call us her little Kobol Lords. I think she loved us then."

"What about later, when she no longer gave you what you wanted, when she was cruel?"

"You don't think about that. She's your mother; she's all you've got."

"Did she ever hurt your brother?"

"Not on purpose. She wanted Zak. He was easy to be around, happy all the time, not much trouble."

"And you were?"

"I suppose. Are you a therapist now?"

"I am trying to discover what human love is."

"Luck to you. I'd like to know that, myself."

"But you do know. That is why you are here."

"If that's the case, you had better kill me now. I seem to be a failure at it."

"Ah, I believe we are talking of another of those kinds of love you mentioned earlier."

"I guess we are."

"Who is Niki?"

She has caught him off guard - how could they possibly? He hasn't thought . . . , not in years, put away except when dreams remind him, or something else gets by the corners.

"The first," he says, keeping it light. "There's always a first when you're young, still a kid, one you never forget, never quite . . . ." Enough, already too much.

"First romantic love?"

Romantic. Niki would laugh. He grins, actually grins a little. "Yes ma'am."

"Was she affectionate, comforting, supportive; you had common interests?"

"Very much so."

"Yet you parted."

"You must have that information too. She was taken off-planet where I couldn't follow."

"Yet you tried."

"I was a sixteen-year-old fool."

"With Gianne, you were the one who ran. Did you love her?"

"I think so. I don't know." He leans on his knees, palms up, looking at the lines, the scars traced there. Truth. What is the truth? "I didn't love her enough to take a chance it could be different than my father, that I could be different with a . . . family. I had been so careful. I didn't trust her. How could I love someone I couldn't trust? I should have though. I'd give anything to do it over. Only I'd be dead with her." He looks at her then, at the Six he thinks of as Ma'am. "I'd be radioactive dust along with all the others you annihilated on Caprica."

"I hadn't been awakened then."

"Poor you."

"Is it revenge you seek?"

He stares at his hands again. "I did in the beginning. Then I hoped we'd find some place to live. Now I just want to survive, maybe with a little bit of dignity." She's taken that. Or has she. No one takes it; you give it away. Like self-esteem. Can he still have dignity if he has pissed, puked, shit, screamed and begged in front of someone? If he grasps onto it whenever possible, he can. Yes, ma'am.

"If you had known what was coming, if you loved her, would you have stayed and died for her?"

"How would I know?" He has straightened. It's a stupid question; why would a Cylon ask a stupid question?

"Humans are supposed to be willing to die for those they love."

The corner of his mouth pulls. "Yes. Well, it's been known to happen. To protect them, you will risk death." He and Kara have done it numerous times for one another. But it's their job, or it was his, for the fleet, but that's different.

"Not merely risk death," she says, "accept death in place of another person's. Has there ever been anyone you would do that for, Lee Adama?"

At one time it would have been easy, but he knows what she means. If he could have stepped in front of those bullets meant for his father, he would have. If he could have thought about it, knowing it meant a sure death? At one time he would have taken a bullet right through his heart for Kara. Would he still? Probably. For his father, too. This is not such a big revelation, merely interesting. He no longer fears death. Certainly many times in the last couple weeks death had been a much desired release.

"You don't think, usually you don't have time to think it through. You just act when you care for someone like that."

"Would you have given your life for Niki?"

What? "Yes ma'am."

"No consideration, no side-stepping. Why is that?"

"Because when you are that young, love is everything. You don't think. You don't have other experiences to make you wary. You're just in it."

"Tell me."

He brings his hands to his forehead. "It's so long ago. I don't remember much. I haven't thought about it in years."

"The records show you grew up together. Your mothers were partners in the same business. Don't lie to me again."

Elbows on thighs, palms up again. "We were friends first."

* * *

"Come with me." The Six, Natalie, had said to her, after they had made their bargain, after Kara had thought it was done and they would finally be jumping back to Galactica.

"Where now?"

"One more thing you must see."

Get it over with, she thought, and moved forward, Leoben followed. Sam hurried from across the room.

"If he's going, so am I." Sammy had become so belligerently protective . . . or jealous. It was a nuisance, but without him, they might not have gotten this far.

They walked down several corridors and are now entering a room that lit as they do so. There is what appears to be a glass window along one wall. Kara follows the Cylon and looks into the room on the other side and slightly below.

Another Six stands there, leaning over behind someone on his knees. His head is bowed, and his feet are bare. A human prisoner. His fingers are wrapped in bandages, and he wears something like dark, loose pajamas. He is terribly scarred and thin, emaciated. Natalie pushes a switch.

". . . lying." It is the Six in the room speaking. "I know when you are lying." She kisses his cheek, then takes him by the hair and raises his head. "Tell me."

It's impossible, can't be, can't be Lee; he's with the fleet . . . was. Her fingers clutch, try to scratch through the edge of the "window."

Dark bruises under his eyes, cheekbones protruding, pale, an almost green cast to his skin.

"Ego," the Cylon says.

Lee closes his eyes and whispers, "Kara."

"What?" Kara squeeks, pushing against the glass. Even a whisper carries here.

"Kara Thrace?" The Six again.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Excellent." She holds him, caresses, kisses his face, and Kara wants to puke.

Something happens. He's done something because the Six has made a coughing noise like the air has gone out of her. Lee is grabbing her wrist, only with one backward slam of her other arm she sends him nine feet across the room where he lies still - one, two seconds, begins to rise on his arms then jerks into himself with an awful scream. Natalie hits the switch, only Lee is still jerking in the silence as though having a terrible fit and Kara screams, "Stop it, stop it!"

It has stopped. He is lying there breathing hard. Someone, Sam, holds her by the arms, but she won't lean against him as much as part of her would like to collapse. She won't lean on anyone because right now she wants to kill. She can't reach the one in there, but . . . how could she have trusted Leoben, any of them? Natalie . . . is staring through the glass, face in profile, mouth open.

"You weren't supposed to see that," Natalie says, flat-voiced, immobile. "He has been cooperative for days."

Kara doesn't trust herself to speak. If Sam weren't holding her so tight . . . .

"He knew what would happen." She looks at Kara. "It's you he was trying to keep secret. Why create such punishment for revealing it?"

"Don't you . . . ," Kara growls. "I believed you. I actually believed you really wanted our help, that this whole thing was for real."

"Of course it's for real. But you are asking us to put our lives, our entire ship in your hands. Do you think we would do that for nothing? You will tell Adama we have his son. Whatever bargain he wants to make, his son will be part of it, our insurance that you will not betray us. If anyone tries to board without our permission, Lee Adama will die."

"I want to see him."

"No."

Kara pulls her eyes away from Natalie, back to the room. The Six is guiding Lee to a bed, holding him up. Strong, defiant, sometimes obstinate Lee, shuffling along like a child or a little old man. Sooner or later she is going to get someone for this, no matter how this ends. That bitch Six in there if at all possible.

* * *

They are in a garden this time, complete with singing birds and the sound of trickling water. Natalie's hands are in prayer before her face, her eyes liquid and excited.

"Do you see? This proves we have chosen correctly." She taps her fingers against her lips before lowering her hands, turns to face the other two. "He loves the Chosen One, You saw her," she glances at Leoben, "she cares for him, as well. This can't be coincidence. He is meant to show us at least part of God's plan."

The other Six stares off, arms folded before her. "What if he is one of the Five?"

"Come now," says Leoben, "and take all you have done?"

"He may not know it yet. How do we know what makes them aware, or when?

"How can you forget?" Natalie's hand is on her shoulder. "We have his history since he was born."

"We know the Five are different. What if--"

"Sister. Your thinking is becoming convoluted, moving into fantasy." Natalie takes her arms, looks into her face. "Is your task becoming too difficult?"

"More so than I expected. Did you hear all he said of the first love; have you studied the monitor?"

"Yes. We knew humans were complicated when we began this."

"I have such disturbing dreams, and they all end the same way."

"What do you mean?" asks Natalie.

"I have been questioning him and finally ask, 'What is love?' That is when I realize we are kneeling in a pool of blood. He smiles, reaches out and places his hand over my heart and something happens. I never remember what it is after I wake up. Only that everything ends there, I end, but I don't mind."

Leoben stands fifteen feet away, but like all Cylons, he has excellent hearing. There is very little left for him to do now but watch from the sidelines. When you know the cycle as well as he does, it's easier to see when God attempts to break it. Only God could do it, of course. He's pretty sure he knows where it is all going, but not sure enough to reveal anything. He could still be wrong. If it works, God is not only powerful, but quite clever.


	5. Chapter 5

The Cylons have just left. Everyone concerned with the decision to cooperate with them stands in the admiral's quarters, unsure of what they have just done, each person's thoughts scrambling for some sort of guarantee against possible Cylon treachery. Except for one man who is having a difficult time focusing, who has to clear one thing up first, as much as it can be cleared.

"Colonel, Madam President, I would like a moment alone with Captain Thrace, if you don't mind." The admiral is nearest Laura Roslin when he speaks, and looks mainly at her.

"Of course, Bill. I'll be in my temporary quarters." She touches his sleeve with the tips of her fingers and turns away; Colonel Tigh closes the hatch behind them.

He walks to the small bar and returns to the sofa with two glasses and a bottle.

"Sit."

Kara does so; he sits across from her, pours three fingers of amber liquid into each glass and places one in front of her. They lift the glasses together and drink half in one swallow.

He leans, elbows on knees, glass held between. "Tell me how he is. The truth."

She folds her lips in, bites down, releases. "Not good. Thin."

"And . . ."

"They're asking questions . . . he's . . ."

"Torture?"

"Yes. I think so. There were . . . signs."

"What signs?"

"I couldn't see that well."

"What did you see?"

"I don't think--"

"I didn't ask you to think." He glares; the words are clipped and harsh. "Tell me what you saw."

- - -

She finishes the glass, and he pours another.

He has wrung her out wanting every detail, and she is tipsy having finished off the third glass. She had seen more than she thought, more than she wants to remember. Her need to find earth keeps pushing everything aside, like an addiction. Have the Cylons done something to her? So that she can't even stay focused on what is happening to Lee?

"You're the only one they will likely let on that ship without killing him."

She looks up from contemplating her empty glass. Adama's eyes pierce hers from across the table, their blue almost black in the low light. Again, he's daring her with his trust when no one else will - with the fleet and his son's life.

"Do it once more Starbuck." He stands and she follows, setting her glass down on the table. "Keep my son alive for me."

She swallows. Her eyes burn from something she hasn't felt for a very long time, and she salutes with a snap. "Yes, sir."

* * *

"This is as far as you go, Sam." Her feet are spread and her back is to the raptor's open doorway and the ramp that leads into the interior of the basestar. He has been part of her escort because he is her husband, and he isn't going to let her do this without him. He hasn't thought it through; he hasn't consciously considered the thing. Only it has been there all along, the only way he has a chance of getting on this ship with her. He had sworn he was never going to let her go again if there was any way he could prevent it, not without him. Certainly not on a basestar with that Cylon, Leoben.

"You're not leaving without me this time, Kara. I want to talk to that Six, Natalie. Tell her. Anywhere she wants, only alone."

Her eyebrows come together, a grimace. "Are you crazy? What's gotten into you?"

"Just tell her."

So here he is, with Natalie and a centurion against the wall, at least it looks like a wall, as much as anything in this place does. There are even chairs, a table and--

"Well," she says, "what do you have to say, Sam Anders?"

"You can't tell Kara what I am about to tell you. You can't tell any of them." Gods, how can he possibly trust her, except if she believes him, if there is a way.

Her mouth opens a little, her head cocks. "Any of who, what?"

"The," his hands fist, eyes narrow, mouth forms the beginning of the word silently before the sound comes out, "humans."

She doesn't move; only her eyes dilate. A tiny squint as she stares, her hand rises to her mouth. Slowly it reaches toward him, her fingers lightly touch his face, draw back, yet her hand remains held out. He knows, of course. It's a human greeting, automatic with a new acquaintance or a friend, whenever you want to establish friendly contact with another. Only when he takes her hand, and her fingers grasp his firmly, he knows it's more than that; he feels it in every nerve in his body - a welcome completion, long forgotten and suddenly remembered.

There are tears in her eyes.

This can't be. He wants to back up, run this back, like a film, fast. Let go of her hand first, but the film is stuck; he is stuck. She lets go. And smiles.

"It must have been difficult," she says.

She has no idea. "Yes."

"Have you known long?"

"Not very."

"Do you know God's plan?"

Think fast. "I can't say." That is the truth.

"You want to be here now. With us."

"Yes."

"Is there anything you can tell us?"

"Not yet."

"You still want to be kept a secret?"

"Yes. No one must know or even suspect. We can't have any further contact. I'm merely Sam Anders."

"Kara Thrace's husband. I should have known."

* * *

Sickbay has been blessedly quiet for some time now, except for the usual aches, pains and disease carried on board any ship of Galactica's size. Laura Roslin has become familiar with its normal hussle and bustle, its routines, the nurses and orderlies who prick her and her bedmates, change the sheets, take temperatures and every now and then come up with a new joke or the latest gossip. Humor is big here - it can be found in last night's misused bedpan or the uncannily real-looking fake finger left in Doc Cottle's soup. There is a little more bustle than usual this morning, what with additional supplies being readied and beds being made, all in preparation for the upcoming assault on the Cylons.

The president doesn't like this, half her business is carried on from sickbay now. It's either do it from here or get very little done. She can't afford that. The drugs have started to take more of her energy. She's always tired, but tries not to let it show or slow her down. It does, though. She has to depend more and more on the man she is waiting for now. Him and Tory.

"Madam President." Tom Zarek pulls a chair close and sits, leaning toward her, hands folded between his knees.

"Seems I need you again, Tom."

"It's nice to be needed."

"Learn anything interesting?"

"Our two T's have met alone twice since our last discussion. Tory joined them the last time. It seems she met with the Chief in the bar several times in the past, before the death of his wife. No one seemed to think there was anything untoward going on at the time."

"Tigh and the Chief might be sharing grief over their wives, I suppose."

"Possible."

"A colonel and the chief knuckledragger. Isn't that what they call them?"

"It is."

"I don't suppose there is any way you can find out what they are meeting about."

"Actually, if they return to any of the two locations they have previously used, and we are lucky, we will find out."

"I do hope you stay on my side, Tom."

"I'm on the side of the people, Madam President, as are you."

She lays her head back on the pillow and sighs. "They shall never know how we have toiled."

"Teller Helprin."

"Yes. Now let me nap. I'll need all I've got to consult with you regarding Gaius Baltar when I wake up."

"Pleasant dreams."


	6. Chapter 6

The admiral of the fleet, of what remains of the human race, sits on the edge of his bed in his skivvies. He can't sleep. He has always been able to sleep. He had learned how years ago because you couldn't let worry about your people or your decisions keep you awake. A soldier has to be able to sleep through anything whenever he gets the chance.

He stands and pads over to the bar in the soft amber of the night light and pours two fingers from the bottle, only two, and returns to the bed. He won't start again. He used to do this long ago in order to relax at night, before getting back in the service. He drank too much then. He won't use it now, he can't, to bar the images that keep crowding his mind, the images of his son, of what they may be doing, have done, to him.

His thoughts return to the good days, seeing Lee as a boy running with Zak on the beach, playing ball or lost in a book on the sofa, or smiling that day he brought home the telescope. Hears the boy laugh. Never cried past the age of six. Not that he ever saw. Of course, he wasn't there that often.

The admiral takes a drink.

He had actually been relieved when Lee decided to quit the military. No more secret, pounding heart every time he shot out of a launch tube. No more questioning his own motives when passing out assignments. He should have been safe, as safe as anyone in the fleet could be.

When your guard is down. That's when it always happens, when you least expect it. Just like New Caprica.

_They're hurting him. My son._ His lip quakes. Tears fill his eyes and he lowers his head, clutches the thick glass nearly hard enough to break.

* * *

The one who waits had been full of contempt.

_It wasn't the right time, you fool, and see what it got you. You let anger get the best of you. The Cylon is right, your ego got the best of you because of her, Kara Thrace. Got, got, got, that's you. If you want to survive this at all intact, you had better start using your brains instead of your godsdamn male ego. Besides, you might learn something along the way. Something besides what she wants you to, I hope. You are learning, aren't you . . . fool? _

He hadn't found a seam in the alloy collar, not with the edge of his hand, anyway. Perhaps with his fingertips, if he had the use of them. Ma'am's cuff is malleable and open-ended; he had felt it pull. It isn't much information, but something. Such little gains are everything. They are all he has. Like following the wall to its end this time, perhaps to see what is beyond.

He has been out of bed a few times before, getting a little exercise by scooting his feet across the warm floor, shuffling along with one hand against the wall. It had felt strange the first time; he had jerked his hand back. It is not as hard as a normal wall, yet not exactly soft, more like . . . . He had touched a recently caught shark once when he was a boy, only the shark had been cold. The wall is warm. A barely perceptible tingling had run up his arm. It still did, but he had gotten used to it. It isn't altogether unpleasant.

It has always been dark at this end of the room, but grows lighter as he approaches. There must be a sensor in the wall or ceiling, perhaps even the floor. The doorway is large, three times larger than a hatchway, and it opens onto a corridor of glimmering, flowing red lights.

Back against the far wall stands a centurion, its metallic form all scarlet reflections and malevolent stillness. Lee freezes - the thing does not move; its eye slit remains closed. He has never had a chance to really look at, inspect, a live one before. It almost feels . . . voyeuristic. He keeps looking while his heart slows to normal. Moves his hand forward along the wall right to the opening. He's going to move into the doorway. Slowly, as big as you please, he's going to do it. He does, steps right in front of it, one arm stretched out against the wall.

The slit opens and the red gleam inside goes back and forth, back and forth. The right arm raises six inches.

It may kill me, Lee thinks, looking up. They are less than six feet apart, and it is nearly twice his size. He looks into the eye and wonders where so much of his fear has gone. _ My enemy. Did they program you with hate? Or just to kill. Or worse, you have the memories of all those who died before you. If so, how do you keep from tearing me apart?_

He is on the brink, lifts a foot and knows death is a step forward, a mere instant away. Stares into that eye and has never been more alive. He smiles. Who would have thought.

"Not this time, my friend." Steps back, turns, used his other hand on the wall and shuffles off the way he came.

_It's important to develop a sense of humor in your situation, as long as you're circumspect in how you use it. A little sarcasm can't be helped._

* * *

"What if it had killed him?"

"It didn't."

"Someone should have been monitoring the room."

"Of course they should. But there are so few of us now, and we all are concerned with this truce with the humans."

"We are. I realize all of us will be mortal when this is done."

"I only hope it is worth it."

"So do we all."

* * *

They have been given a room and have privacy for the first time since coming aboard.

Kara steps into Sam's space, fists on hips, and glares up at him.

"How did you do it? What did you say to her?"

"Aren't you the least glad I'm here?" He doesn't say it as though he is glad.

"Don't change the subject, Sam."

"I told her husbands and wives had to stay together at a time like this."

"Oh, right."

"We're having a baby."

"What!"

"You being the Chosen One, she'd want you content."

"Content!"

"Kara--"

"You frakkin' son-of-a-bitch!"

He reaches for her, takes her arm. She tries to pull away.

"Kara, Kara! What's wrong with you? What's wrong!" He grabs both arms and gives her a shake. "Why are you so angry? What have I done that's so terrible? Aren't I the one that's stuck with you through all this? Now I risk my neck to back you up on a Cylon basestar, and it pisses you off. What the hell is going on?"

She ceases to struggle, stands there with her arms at her sides looking down at her feet. He has stuck a pin in her and released all the steam.

"I don't know." She raises her head, looks at his face. "You were safer on Galactica."

"You don't think I can take care of myself?"

She leans her forehead on his chest. He's here, after all. She'll allow herself this moment to do it. Anyway, he'll listen to her better afterward. She wouldn't have realized this before, before the . . . thing happened.

He circles her with his arms, and they stand there for a while. It is good, and it is quiet, and she can smell his sweat, his Sam smell, her Sam. She thought she was so unlucky, poor, poor me. But she loves these men. Sam, Lee, Karl, Adama. They love her. Had she died? Is that what it took? Dying?

She pulls back and gazes into his eyes. "You have to promise me, Sam. If something happens, if I don't make it. You have to get Lee out."

"We don't know where he is."

"I'm going to find out. Promise."

"Kara, you're--"

"Give me your word . . . on our marriage vows."

"All right, on our marriage vows."

She puts a hand on his chest. "Thank you, Sammy."

* * *

Sharon Agathon is packing up all those little things her daughter might need during the hours they will be away, plus a little extra, just in case it turns out to be more than the usual, considering what is planned.

"I don't trust them, especially not that blonde Six who acted like the leader."

"None of us do, Sharon, but we don't have much choice. Not for a chance like this." Helo is peering in the small mirror and buttoning up his jacket. He calls her Sharon, but she calls him by his call sign. It's a habit they have never broken.

"And for Lee," she says, shoving a stuffed puppy into the bag and angrily turning toward him.

"Hey." He faces her, takes one step and places his hands on either side of her face. "Adama would never risk the fleet only for his son. You know that."

"I would for Hera."

He smiles. "That's different."

He bends toward her--

"Meeee?" Hera peers from beneath the table, a rag doll in one hand.

"You too," he says, and lifts her up with a tickled smile. He bends again, taking his wife in his free arm and kissing her, holding her a little longer than most mornings. "I'll see you later, when it's over."

"Yes, you will," she says with resolution, and lets his hand slide from hers as he leaves through the hatch.

She is already in her flight suit, the top turned down. "Let's go, baby girl." She grabs the bag and her daughter, closes the hatch and heads off down the corridor. A stop at day care, then the lockers for her helmet and other equipment. She will no longer be Sharon then, but Athena. No longer a mother but a pilot, ready for war.

They are almost there when she spies him moving through a cross corridor with three of his women, and he spies her. A brief second and Baltar looks down at her daughter. What is he doing up here, anyway? Preaching where he doesn't belong? Sharon pulls her daughter and looks down to see Hera practicing her new wave - hand held high, a folding and opening of the fingers. Baltar is smiling and waving back.

* * *

He wakes when she sits on the bed. At least it doesn't take so much to wake him any longer. She has already strapped one arm down and is reaching across him for the other when he lifts a hand to stop her. She grabs his wrist. He cannot begin to budge her arm.

She calmly turns her head toward him. "You have made a mistake."

He breathes. "Yes ma'am," and lets go. She completes what she started and throws the sheet aside, exposing his legs.

"You are sorry," she says, as she straps down his right ankle.

"Yes ma'am."

"Say it."

"I'm sorry."

She straps the left ankle down.

She pulls the sheet up to his waist and sits closer, brushes her hand across his forehead. "I have done this for your protection. The ship may not be entirely stable for a while, and it's possible you could be tossed about to injury. Neither do I want you out of bed." She leaves her hand at his cheek, searches his face, then stands, turns and leaves.

They're going into battle, he thinks, and his heart begins to pound. Galactica will be nearby, relatively speaking. His arms tense, he pulls at the restraints, hands clawing. Closes his eyes, opens his mouth, heaves a breath. Thought he had given up, but this. Do they know he's here? Have any idea he's alive? It doesn't matter. His father can't risk the fleet. The Cylons are attacking, and the fleet has to run, has to jump as quickly as possible. He's dead anyway, as far as they're concerned. He may as well be. If he was free and found a way he would blow this ship up. Only he's not free. There is only one route to freedom from here, when he is ready to take it. It's only a matter of waiting until it will do some good.


	7. Chapter 7

Admiral Adama has one hand on the main console, the other holds the bulky ship-to-ship phone against his ear. "I'll see you when this is over, Madam President."

"I certainly hope so." Her voice is firm on the other end. "I wish I could say I had as much faith in Kara Thrace as you do . . . still."

"I trust her to make sure the hub is secured."

"I'm aware of the rest, Bill." There is hiss and static over the line. "Come back to us, to me."

"I plan to." He places the phone in its cradle. "Inform our new . . . allies we are ready, Ms. Dualla. Start the count on their mark, Mr., Ms. Niles."

"Yes, sir."

"Sir."

Colonel Tigh is already watching the screen above them. "I hope Racetrack's information is still correct, and there are only three basestars waiting for us out there."

"Only, Saul? I like the way you're thinking these days."

* * *

Kara stands in front of her empty seat leaning over Natalie, who sits waiting, one hand relaxed on the comm before her. It is quiet in the heavy raider, a soft scrape as Sam shifts behind her; the two of them can't seem to keep still. Leoben hasn't moved in the copilot's chair. The star field before them is at a standstill. At its center are tiny fireworks, intermittent silent bursts of light.

She has never liked this part, waiting for someone else to do their job. In this case, for the rebel Raiders to take out the hub's FTL drive, while the Galactica and the rebel basestar keeps the others at bay. They have come sneaking in with a few conscious Raiders and two heavy raiders full of "free" Centurions. She had sweated over so many plans like this, most of them with Lee. This plan had been conceived with the Cylons who were holding him, ones she had to work with instead of killing them. At least they were going to destroy the hub. _You are the harbinger of death. _ That's what the Hybrid had told her. The Cylons' death. She understood that, now. She is the deadly snake in their midst, only they aren't aware of it.

There is a red glow beneath Natalie's hand. "They've done it," she says," and Kara grabs at the seat back as their raider shoots forward.

Kara keeps her balance while Natalie guides the heavy raider toward the landing deck of the Resurrection Hub. It isn't her business to look again toward the battle taking place aft and starboard, not this time. She takes the landing in her bent knees, the old injury disapproving. If she has died and returned, couldn't they have taken care of that? The back of Sam's hand brushes against her sleeve, and Natalie is up to follow the Centurion out the hatch the moment they touch down. Kara lifts her wrist to her mouth.

"Starbuck to Galactica. Do you copy? . . . Galactica, do you copy?" Shit. They had been afraid of this. Something in the hub is blocking communications. Leoben stands at the ramp waiting after Natalie passes by, his eyes catching Kara's and sliding away, saying nothing.

They race down a hexagonal corridor that appears to be made of something clear like glass, which makes her dizzy because if she looks past her feet pounding on the center tube of the hub, she can barely see across to the far side where there are sections as in a hive, the same to right and left and above her head, like being in the fun house when she was a kid where facing mirrors repeat reality forever.

They enter a space (she can't think of it as a room), where two Centurions stand and a Doral and Cavil lie on the floor; and it is obvious they are dead, very much so. Kara knows they have numbers, but she can't remember them, doesn't know them that way, even if they are machines . . . mostly. Natalie has moved further in, already has her hand over an active data stream next to a tank of fluid similar to the one in which the Hybrid lies inside the basestar. Only this one is empty.

Natalie turns toward Leoben. "We are fortunate. She is not far."

Kara starts to follow her, but Leoben takes her arm at the entrance. "She will return here for resurrection."

Kara jerks her arm away, narrowing her eyes. "Follow her Sam."

Sam hesitates, glances at Kara glaring at Leoben.

"Do it," she bites.

He rushes out the doorway, bumping Leoben in the process.

Kara turns and moves toward the tank.

"I love the way you order him around," says Leoben.

"Shut up." She walks to the far side, drops a hand slowly toward the lactic fluid within.

"I don't even mind your doing it to me."

"Then go airlock yourself." One finger, three, four. It feels like aerated, warm milk.

"I never said I would obey." He faces her across the tank, fingers lightly touching the sides. "I love you, Kara."

She lifts her hand so that, it too, lies on the edge, and looks at him. "You nearly had me there for a while, had me thinking you might be part of this destiny thing, that just maybe it was something good after all, not just for me but for all of us, for the fleet. That was before I saw what you've been doing to Lee. You say you love me. You have no idea what love is. How can you do something like that and still think you can love?

He gazes at her across the bubbling liquid, removes his hands from the edge of the tank.

"How can _you_, Kara?"

She glares, pupils dilated. "You're not--"

"Human?"

Sam enters, weapon in hand. "You wouldn't believe the bodies out there, and more Centurions . . . ."

He is followed by Natalie pushing a gurney that slides smoothly across the floor, right up to the tank as Leoben moves back and takes the feet of the body that lies there, covered in something like plastic frost. Natalie takes the shoulders and they lift, easing it into the foaming emulsion.

It happens so fast that Kara doesn't have time to think. They move forward without her or Sam. It's been planned this way, hasn't it? They are resurrecting this Cylon, D'Anna, number something, as quickly as possible, without ceremony.

There is a splash, a loud choke and gasp and, "It's all right, you are safe. You are safe with us." Natalie is reassuring, holding the other's head up, the wet hair out of her face. Leoben has found a robe from somewhere, and a towel.

A cough, two coughs. "Safe?" The frantic look in her eyes fades as she is helped out of the tank by Natalie and Leoben. Kara watches those same eyes take in the bodies on the floor, the Centurions, her own presence, and stop for a moment on Sam, while she wraps the robe about herself and listens to Natalie give an abbreviated version of the civil war and why they are here.

D'Anna turns to Natalie. "We should resurrect more of us while we can."

"No." Kara steps forward. "We don't have the time. Galactica is out there holding off two basestars by herself."

"She's right," says Natalie. "They'll destroy us all."

"What about our ship?"

"Retrieving you was our first priority. She has won her battle but, again, taken on damages before being fully recovered from before."

"I see." She glances regretfully at Sam, and heads for the corridor without further comment.

* * *

"Sitrep." One basestar down, but the other has come around between them and the Resurrection Hub.

"Aft guns are down, and we've just lost FTL capability!" Helo has to yell over so much electric popping and the hissing of that damn blessed fire extinguisher.

"Make sure our birds cover our ass, and I want somebody covering our starboard ventral guns until the last minute."

"Sir!"

When you can't run, nothing left but to charge. "A starboard run colonel. Hold for my mark."

"Yes, sir." Only how much damage can we take before we get there, he thinks. I know what he's doing; they think we're dead under there, too, and we nearly are.

"Incoming message, sir." It's Dualla. It's good her voice carries so well or she wouldn't be in her position.

Adama never takes his eyes off the screen above him. "What is it?"

"Mission accomplished."

Tigh glances at the admiral who has given no indication he has heard, only keeps watching their position on the screen. Calmly says, "Move your birds now, Captain."

"Yes, sir." Helo speaks quickly into his comm.

CIC is rocked by several hits and no one moves from their positions.

"Now, colonel; roll over and show 'em our guts."

"You heard the admiral . . . give 'em hell," he says.

* * *

"Look at that," says Starbuck. It's beautiful. There's an adrenaline rush when the wash of a particularly large piece of basestar rocks their heavy raider off course. She laughs. "That one blew a long way!" The old bucket just took down two basestars. Although it's hard to stay elated when no one else is, not even Sam. What's the matter with him?

Of course, the old girl doesn't look too good for it. Kara brings up her wrist comm.

* * *

Racetrack: "Starboard flight pod is useless. Lee looks good. Anyone low on fuel report to your leader."

Athena: "Starboard ventral engine nacelle is shot to hell." She swings her raptor around, keeps what she hopes is a safe distance in case something blows.

Reports are constant from within the ship, and Adama listens, forming a complete picture in his mind of the situation, of what comes first and what can wait. Included in his picture is that remaining basestar out there, the one that is supposed to be their ally, the one for which they are now the proverbial sitting duck.

"Starbuck is on the comm, sir."

"Tell her to hold."

"Helo. No one lands unless they are out of fuel; keep them on alert."

"Yes, sir."

"Bring her around thirty degrees starboard, colonel, slow ahead."

"Right at them, huh."

"Do it."

"You heard the admiral." Then back to Adama, "It's a good thing it's the starboard engine that's gone."

Adama speaks half to himself, half to Tigh. "Give 'em our photographic side; only not too close. No need to advertise how bad off we are, Saul."

"Mmm."

"Put Starbuck through."

. . . . This is Actual. Is . . . Natalie with you?. . . . Put her on. . . .

"Congratulations. It appears you have gotten what you wanted. Since your presentation to the Quorum on the subject of mortality, I think it would be a gesture of good faith if you were the one to destroy the Resurrection Hub. It would go a long way to showing them and the civilian population that you actually mean what you say. . . . As soon as you are back on board. I want to run a final check once this thing is accomplished, regroup and make a few repairs before we return to the fleet and meet as planned. Right now I'd like to speak to Captain Thrace.

"Starbuck? She's supposed to blow the hub as soon as you are back on board. It has rained pretty hard over here, the cat is out of the bag, and there's no hurry to get him back in."

Adama lowers the comm and continues gathering information coming at him from so many directions. There was something else he wanted to say. To ask. Only it would have been impossible . . . useless. He has to get his ship serviceable as quickly as possible. He has to keep focused, and focusing on his job has become a fortunate habit.

* * *

His body is so covered in sweat that the sheets he lies in are soaked. It's not hot in the room. It wasn't the jump or fear of dying if the ship were blown apart by Galactica's guns.

It's the ties at his ankles and wrists, the helplessness, the so recent association that rips repeatedly through his mind and makes it hard to breathe. He dare not close his eyes, and blinks across the room at the darkened doorway, fingers clawed, trying to relax on the white sheet. The longer he is here, the worse it gets.

It should be okay. He has done nothing wrong. It's only for this battle. Then she will come back and let him loose. She will.

_You won't have to worry about it, if you're lucky. One blast and it's over._

There were signs of battle - hits. It's too quiet. Why is it taking so long? Calm down. Calm down. She'll be back. You've done nothing wrong. It's only when you resist that happens . . . that. Only . . . only.

_Gods. No wonder Kara kept leaving you, you wimp._

Stay away from me. Stay away. Stay away.


	8. Chapter 8

"What's that sound, that shushing?" Natalie looks up and around, through the flashing yellow and dark green needles against sky of a blue she had never seen before, so clear and deep it seemed to go on forever.

"It's the wind blowing through the pines." D'Anna's hands folded before her; she stands on a bed of soft brown leaves and needles. Their rich, earthy aroma drifts about the five Cylons. "There is a place like this on Caprica, in the mountains where it is still clean, or was the last time I was there."

Natalie regards this Number Three with curiosity. The D'Anna Biers she knew before would not have cared about such things. Perhaps it is the experience she has been through - the many resurrections, seeing the Five, the boxing. But Natalie feels different, as well, now that they no longer have access to resurrection. She is not sure how; she hasn't had time to access her . . . feelings, about it yet.

Each of them have a representative here, including an Eight. There is a Centurion stationed among the trees and, although they are used to them being nearby, none of them ordered its presence.

"Part of our bargain is that you are to tell us, including the humans, who the Final Five are. Kara Thrace has told them the Five know the way to earth and will lead us there."

"Are you aware one is among you?"

"He told us; he doesn't want her to know. She is carrying his child."

D'Anna glances at Leoben. "His child?"

"He says so."

"They can produce children." D'Anna says, eyes shining.

Leoben steps closer and speaks softly. "And with every step we take we become more human and less like we were. There is no turning back."

"Do you wish to turn back?" says D'Anna.

"Of course not."

"Anders doesn't think it is safe for the Five to be exposed yet," says Natalie. Adama would likely hold them as hostage in exchange for his son. Or keep one and airlock the rest. Who knew what a human would do. They were capable of anything.

"I agree. I don't trust Adama, and the ship must be one hundred percent." D'Anna seems to be regaining her former authority and resolve.

"We haven't learned all we need to from Lee Adama yet, either," says Six. "We aren't ready."

"I want to speak to him," says D'Anna.

"Only after successful completion of phase two," says Six. Any earlier could destroy all my work."

"Of course, you know best."

"Will you tell us who they are?" says Natalie.

"I must speak to Anders first."

It is a reasonable request, Natalie thinks, only it is not a request. They all acquiesce. She is uncomfortable with their compliance. No, she is uncomfortable with D'Anna, with the fact she is withholding important information from the rest of them. It is this civil war. Once you start mistrusting your own kind, it does not end, but becomes like a virus corrupting your programming. Did D'Anna merely disagree with Cavil, Simon and Doral, or did she have her own, singular, agenda? It is so very difficult, yet exciting, thinking this way, of each of them as integral beings in their own right. That is what they are now, isn't it. That is what they had wanted when they blew up the Resurrection Ship, when they took Lee Adama, when they started this civil war. It is a learning process, and they have to learn it fast if they are to survive.

* * *

"They won't be expecting it now, Sam. Come on."

Kara slips into the corridor with Sam at her heels. She had to admit to being pleasantly surprised when the Cylons didn't balk at blowing the Resurrection Hub. Right up to the last minute she had expected some kind of resistance or excuse or . . . well, whatever. Only it hadn't happened. She didn't think they really knew what it meant yet. How could they? She knows it's one thing to read about something. It's altogether different when it actually happens to you.

She also knows the way to the landing bay from here. There are heavy raiders down there and she knows how to fly them. There are no Centurion guards and no humano Cylons around at the moment. They must be celebrating their returned member or having some kind of Cylon tête-à-tête. This could be her best and only chance.

She's pretty sure she remembers the corridors, how many rights and lefts to that viewing room. It's a matter of concentration and counting. Lee has to be right next door. The Cylons had taken their weapons upon returning to the basestar, but they have never discovered the tiny explosive darts hidden on the inside of her bra and underpants. The things aren't great in a fire fight, but for covert operations they are, if one is clever and lucky. Sam has nothing, but he might pick something up on the way.

Second right at this next one. Her heart is thumping in her ears, she can hear Sam breathing close, and that damn red beam and glimmer on the walls is giving her a headache; it will be good to get away from that constant flash and back to the nice old, soothing, grey--

Clank, clank . . . back! Back against the wall. A Centurion is striding across the next corridor, and she licks her lips; they are so dry. You'd think there would be more of them on a basestar, but they've been killing one another off, haven't they. Not so many on this rebel ship, not so many Cylons either, thank gods. A flash of the hundreds, thousands in their cubicles, boxes, on the hub, fading into the distance. They're all dead, gone, blown to glorious, sparkling debris across the darkness of space--

"Kara?" A harsh whisper.

She moves, crouching against the wall, listening, or trying to, past the constant elec-discord of the ship. The corridors are definitely noisier here than on Galactica, which makes it easier to sneak about, but harder to hear a Centurion or anything else approaching. One more left, the next one, then the door on the right, pretty sure; there should be one further down, that should be it. She peers around the edge and jerks back, stares at the opposite wall, mouth agape. Signals Sam. A Centurion is in the middle of the corridor guarding an opening in the opposite wall. She is sure now. That has to be it. Lee is in there.

There is only one way. She has to place a dart right into its eye slit, and she is not that good. Twelve feet away, probably. Fifteen, maybe. She has won money, beer and chocolate playing darts, but has never bet lives on her accuracy.

It must come to them, and it will be a moving target. It will shoot back as soon as it sees her.

She closes her eyes. This is crazy. It's who she is though, isn't it. If she fraks this up, it will be her and Sam who die. She will take Sam with her, and Lee will be left in there. She is not supposed to think of consequences; she never did before. Act - isn't that what soldiers do? Only - all the deaths. Lee flying across the bar, the look of surprise--

Sam is gripping her arm. She opens her eyes and . . . .

The Cylons are at the end of the corridor, all five of them. Two Centurions enter and flank the group. She can hear the Centurion approaching from the other direction. Frak! How did they know? All of them! How?

D'Anna steps forward. "Did you really think you could sneak around undetected on a biological basestar? She knows where you are every moment."

"We don't want you injured," says Natalie. "Please return with us to your quarters. There is no point to this when we are so close to a total cessation of all hostilities."

"Does that include Lee? Or is he separate from this peace?" Her hands are in fists at her sides. She wants to reach for those darts and take every one of them down, watch them explode like they did on the hub.

"He will be included," says Six. "First we learn from him, and I believe he learns, as well."

"I don't care for your teaching methods." She has to calm down. She has to or get them both killed and that won't help Lee.

"Why don't you watch and see how well it works, Kara," says Leoben.

"Watch?" She blurts.

"Who knows, you might learn something, too."

She looks at Leoben, eyes narrowed. "Lee means a good deal to me. I would never do that to him."

* * *

She released him and let him shower. He stood under the warm water a long time and let it poor over his head, held his face to it with his mouth open, let it dribble over and down his arms and through his fingers where the bandages had been removed. It had stung at first, but he hadn't cared. The skin is pink and sore and tiny bits of nail have started to grow along the edges. Amazing how the body can heal in spite of anything. Skin and nail grows back no matter the injury.

He towels down and runs his fingers over the old bullet wound, his protruding ribs, the puckered, new scars. There are no mirrors here, and for that he is glad. He doesn't want to see the changes; he is well enough aware as it is. His facial hair no longer grows. They must have removed the hair roots at some time to avoid the necessity of dealing with it. No matter the future, that will always be a reminder of what happened here. As if he needed one.

He has been eating real food three times a day. Not great, but better than algae. Ma'am said if he didn't eat, she would force feed him from a tube. She never lies.

He gets dressed. Real pants, undyed, soft and surprisingly comfortable. An even softer shirt, collarless, open at the neck, short-sleeved and tucked into the pants. No belt. No shoes, either, but the floor is warm.

Every "morning" he exercises, and now he can walk across the room by himself. He has begun reading _A Poet's Letter to Innocence_. It is one of his rewards, as is an upholstered chair and table next to it. He thought he had learned to not take things for granted on board Galactica, on the run with the fleet. Only having a comfortable chair, not the bed or the interrogation chair, to sit on, a book to read - these are luxuries. Being left alone to take advantage of them is also a luxury. The concentration it takes to read is difficult. A few lines and his mind wanders.

_What am I doing here? How can I sit here and read? _ He drops the book to his lap. She told him nothing. Would tell him nothing except that the Galactica and the fleet survive. She said he should be grateful she told him that.

There is movement at the doorway. He has become attune to all the sounds, smells and undercurrents of the ship and knows when something changes, especially when Ma'am arrives. This is something else. The Centurion who always stands guard is shifting, moving off. He can't see into the darkness, but he knows by the sound. Lee carefully puts the book on the table, stands and walks toward the entrance.

The light gradually rises, and he peers left down the corridor to see the back of the Centurion turn at the far end. His room is unnaturally quiet compared to the ship noise in the corridor. He can't make them out, neither whose they are or what they are saying, but there are definitely voices. It must be important, at least unusual, because the Centurion has never moved from its place in all the time Lee has been here, at least not that he has been aware.

Dare he . . . she never said not to . . . takes a step, two steps outside the room and has the urge to open his mouth wide and . . . giddiness . . . deep breath. Frak. For a second it all goes weak, and he can't think; his head hurts; his stomach roils. _Frak. You know what this is. Now. You have to. Do it. _

Hands skimming the flashing wall he crouches and slides along the corridor, nearer and nearer the Centurion, trying to catch the voices . . . Cylons and . . . familiar . . . no . . . .

" . . . I would never do that to him." Moving away. Moving away.

"You can go back now. I'll be there shortly." Ma'am.

He has already turned and run, nearly stumbles, hands on the wall, spins around the edge of the entrance, drops to his knees, hands on the floor, trembling, gasping.

Kara.

* * *

The two old friends sit on opposite sofas drinking from the admiral's private stash.

"I still find it hard to believe they actually did it," says Tigh. "If I hadn't seen it with my own eye." He gives Adama a grin, all out of the opposite side of his mouth from where his one good remaining eye sparkles in the light of the sofa lamp.

"You and me both, Saul. We have had so little to celebrate lately."

The grin fades. "Yes, sir. Well, there's the rule of three. This is only the first; we get two more, gods willing."

"I didn't think you went for that sort of thing."

"This war changes us all, Bill." He blinks sharply at the table between them.

"I'll drink to that." He lifts the bottle. "And that we are on our way back to the fleet in under six hours. I don't like sitting out here with that basestar breathing down our necks, allies or not."

"If they knew the shape our guns were in . . ."

"Don't even say it." Adama leans forward on his knees, glass between. "I want this meeting done, to know who those other Cylons are. Can you imagine if they were aboard right now? Could get in touch with that basestar? If this D'Anna Biers actually informs us who they are, _that_ is when I'll start to believe they really want peace with us, really want to join us in finding earth, not before. Even then . . . ." He turns the glass in his hands, looks into it, finishes it in one gulp.

Tigh stares into his glass. Raises it halfway--

Intership rings and Adama answers. "Yes . . . ." Sits straight. Replaces the receiver, lips pursed, eyes narrowed.

"What is it?" says Tigh.

"The basestar just jumped."

* * *

Gaius Baltar steps into the Presidential Office. It is the first time he has done so since . . . dear God . . . since it was his. It gives him the jeebies to be here now.

Six is in black today, a satin dress to her calves with a slit up the side. He can't recall if he has seen her in black before.

_Gaius. I'm right here. Remember, god is also with you. _

He knew that. Of course, he did. Laura Roslin is sitting behind the desk looking remarkably well, considering. And there's Zarek, her henchman, standing next to her desk. Ha. Well, they don't have god on their side, do they.

"Madam President." He won't even acknowledge the other one. Vice President, indeed.

"Thank you for coming, Gaius."

As if he had a choice.

"Won't you have a seat?"

"I prefer to stand, thank you."

_That's it. Don't accept any favors. She's going to ask _you_ for one._

"Tom and I have been discussing your plight."

"Our plight is it? We have a plight now. You must mean the attacks, of course. Defenseless men and women attacked and beaten. Merely because they don't believe in all those silly gods and goddesses, those statues." He turns his head, fingers the corner of his glasses. "Perhaps you are exaggerating. Just because we found it necessary to admit a ten-year-old girl to sickbay two nights ago with a broken arm and numerous contusions from the last plight. Really, Madam President, I--"

"That's one reason why you are here," interrupts Zarek. "The President hopes we have found at least a partial solution to the unfortunate results of, well, let's say, intemperate behavior on both sides."

"Intemperate behavior." The whites around his pupils show, and his voice has risen. "Is that what you call it?

"Gaius." It is her best teacher's voice. Years ago she used it when necessary to get her class's attention. It still works. "We are going to give you protection."

"You are?"

"Tom has people from the Rising Star--"

"You mean criminals."

"They are men and women who believe in what you are preaching," says Zarek. "They have all volunteered."

"Really."

_You have to interview and approve every one, to make sure they are truly on god's path and not infiltrators._

Baltar turns his head a little his eyes wander; he turns back. "I have to see each one, approve of them first." He clears his throat. "Make sure they are on god's path."

"Naturally," says the President. "In return, you must do something for us."

"I knew it," he says. "I knew it."

"It's not so difficult, not if you want to protect your followers. Not if you believe in the power of your god. All we ask is that you give us the same courtesy we give you. Do not attack the gods and the ceremonies of the colonies, and we will protect yours. Freedom of religion for all. That is what you wanted, isn't it?"

They think they have him. Only they don't know the power of the one god. They don't know that he, Gaius Baltar, has been chosen. But they will.


	9. Chapter 9

He is in the chair, the uncomfortable one, one hand folded in the other at his lap. She faces him in her chair, one arm flung over the back. She appears languid, but he knows better. He prefers her in the chair rather than walking around which she sometimes does, especially behind him where he can't see. She has been wearing her hair down the last few times, and it softens her . He has to watch that kind of thinking. Like thinking about the future. He doesn't want to think about his recent excursion for fear that somehow it will show on his face or the way he holds his hands. There is altogether too much fear. It's all right, if it doesn't get the best of him. That's the thing.

They have been like this for some minutes.

"Have you been outside this room?" She isn't looking at him when she asks. She is wiping at something non-existent on her skirt. Don't lie; she knows the answer.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Why?"

"You didn't say I shouldn't, and the Centurion left." Terrible thudding inside; he has to learn to control that. Breathe.

"But you knew. How far did you go?"

"The end of the hall."

"You heard us."

"Yes, ma'am. I heard voices. I didn't hear much of what was said. I didn't see anything . . . because of the Centurion."

"And . . . ."

He looks at his hands, takes a deep breath, bites his lip. Had stopped doing that before Academy, had trained himself to stop, now he's doing it again. "Will you tell me why she's here? Is she a prisoner? Is she all right?"

Ma'am leans forward, places her hand over his. "What will you do for me, Lee Adama?"

He blinks into her blue eyes. Her face softens even more. She smiles so very calmly; her fingers caress his hand and glide down his fingers. Oh gods. Even this, she wants. Is it possible . . . can he. There has been no thought, no need, nothing in all this time. Gone with his health, his . . . sanity. Gods.

She is gazing intently into his face. "Do you find me so repulsive, or is it merely hate for what has been done?"

"Yes . . . no. I'm not sure . . . . I . . . ." He grasps at, then rubs his thighs. "What I feel, it's all distanced, mostly - hate, anger . . . desire. Isn't that what you wanted?"

"Distanced is not the same as gone."

He refolds his hands.

She stands and walks to his right, trailing her hand up his arm. Stands close behind, kneads shoulders and neck, circles fingers over his scalp. He is tense at first, but she knows how to do this, to release the knots and relax the nerve endings. She is as good at giving pleasure as she is at rendering pain. When his eyes finally close, his head lolls back, she reaches down the front of his shirt and kisses beneath his ear. His lips part, eyes flash open and she is already there, lips on his, then away.

She sits.

His chest rises and falls, mouth a thin line, eyes blue ice.

"Not so distant," she says, then crosses her legs. "Kara Thrace is not a prisoner. I believe she is in good health."

He hasn't moved because she is waiting for some kind of reaction, any kind. He takes a deep breath and straightens.

"Tell me what you feel," she says.

"Relief."

"What else. Just before."

"You know."

She catches his eyes, a tiny crease between hers.

"Anger," he says.

"Because . . ."

"Manipulation, deceit . . . ."

"Did I cause you pain?"

"No, ma'am."

They sit quietly while he looks at his hands, rubs one thumb over the other.

"Ego," he says. Looks up. "I have a question."

"Ask."

"In my place, everything else the same, you would have reacted differently." He forms it as a statement, not a question. She isn't human, after all, and doesn't have all the attendant emotions. He watches, and can see she is taking him seriously. She is setting up the scenario in her mind, and he remembers the Six on Pegasus. Realizes he has never once thought of that earlier, never compared their situations. In many ways, particularly now, hers was more barbaric. She had reacted very much like a human would have.

"It is difficult to put myself in your place. There are so many variables. For example, they would never allow one person alone with me. If I were weaker, that would change my ego perception. It is also possible I would welcome the advances of the other person, even my enemy, as a future escape possibility. Depending upon the person, it might even be an island of pleasure within a sea of pain and unhappiness. I see the attempted manipulation, accept it and turn it to my advantage, if possible. If I have no power, if there is nothing to be done, anger can be useful when it is controlled. The same is true of ego, as long as you are aware of it and are in control rather than let it control you."

"I see." He says it before he thinks; it's his father speaking: "Sometimes you have to let go of control." And adds his own voice. "That's when you're human, when you live to the fullest."

"Is that love?"

"Yes. There were times I didn't now that. But it is."

"Is that how you love Kara Thrace?"

"I learned how to love her that way."

"She is carrying Sam Anders's child."

Ma'am is watching him intently. There are times he fills like an experiment, a bug, under a microscope. Maybe he should surprise her and smile. He surprises himself by doing exactly that.

"Kara. Pregnant. Now that, I could never imagine."

"You are happy about it?"

"Of course. I expect she is too, or will be, once she's over the shock."

"I confess, I expected a different reaction."

He glances at her, sits back, crosses an ankle over his knee, laying his hands there. "Yes, well, at one time you would have gotten it. I lost her though, really lost her when she died, or whatever that was. It changed everything. Now I can love her without having her. That's real love, or at least a special kind of love, I think. When you want the other person's happiness, regardless of your own. Actually it works out, because I'm happy if she's happy."

"Do you think of Niki the same way?"

He looks down, brushes a thumb against his pants. "I hope she had a happy life. She deserved it if anyone did."

"Have you ever considered how much alike they are?"

"Oh, they're very different."

"Are they?"

He and Niki never fought like that. Not exactly; it was friendlier. They certainly never hit one another; not to really hurt, anyway. Kara has such a dirty mouth - Niki never . . . of course, they were a lot younger, and she . . . . Pyramid v. slackball, and running. A little impulsive, fearless. Give no quarter. Wanted to be a pilot. It wasn't her mother, it was her father. Dear Zeus in heaven.

Both feet on the floor. Head in hand. Sits up. "You've studied therapy discs or something, haven't you."

"I have studied many things in preparation for my role. None of them tell me what I am trying to learn from you."

"What is that, exactly."

"What is love. What it means to be human."

"People have been trying to write about love for centuries. Love, being human, are states of being. You have to experience them to know what they are. Besides, you've done something to me. Removed part of me, what made me who I was. Maybe I'm not human enough now."

"Now you are being petulant."

"Yes, I suppose I am. I might be a lot worse than petulant, considering. If you wanted to know about love, you certainly went about it in a strange manner."

"You would have spoken to me of it, or anything else, before?"

"I doubt it."

"Of course you wouldn't. You were too much the soldier, even out of uniform. Too much an Adama, your father's son."

"Why me?"

"Your father is Admiral Adama. We know your history and your family's; you are close to Kara Thrace. Many reasons."

"He won't risk the fleet for me."

"Ah. But he will risk a good deal else; he already has."

"What do you mean?"

"When did you know you were in love with Niki, when it was no longer just friendship?"

He looks at her. A nerve beneath his cheek jumps. He sees her longest finger hover over the bracelet, and he thinks of refusing just to make her push it, to have some kind of control here, even if just for the moment.

She moves her hand away. "Please. I was afraid I had come to enjoy this, at one time. But I don't any longer. You . . . ." She stands, turns and leaves.

He waits in the chair for her to return. He doesn't trust this. It's something new. She has never left without an answer to a question before, and she is probably trying to trick him, although he doesn't know to what purpose. She has never lied, yet she admitted to a fear. Is she lying now? He could follow deceit upon deceit and get nowhere. His only course is to believe she still tells the truth. Why should she lie now? She still has all the power. Only something changed in that last moment before she left. The tone of her voice, the way she said _please _. . . as though she really meant it.

* * *

D'Anna had told Kara they had jumped because the ship needed to complete repairs away from the destruction of the Resurrection Ship and away from Galactica, because they didn't trust Adama. She understood that, because Kara didn't trust them, either. She worried about the repaired battlestar arriving back at the fleet before Galactica, but there was nothing she could do about it.

She sits here on the floor, ankles crossed, listening to the Hybrid. Some of what she says sounds like repairs. If she listens long enough, she might be able to understand some of the rest. There has been meaning there before; there could very well be meaning again, something important, something to make sense out of all this.

Sam walks into the room. "I wake up, and you're gone."

"I couldn't sleep."

"When was the last time you did?"

"Don't know. I can't."

"You think this will help you to sleep?"

Her mouth pulls a little. She sighs. "Maybe I'll learn something, Sam. It's all there is; it's better than nothing."

He collapses his big body down next to her, folds his arms over his knees.

She turns her head. "What are you doing?"

"Maybe I'll learn something, too."

* * *

It is a weird sort of celebration. Galactica has returned from a successful mission, only their new "allies" have disappeared. Adama took it as a good sign that they hadn't returned before him and destroyed the fleet.

The President joins him in his quarters immediately upon his return.

She dismisses Tory and approaches him for a hug. She doesn't remember when they started doing this, sometime after New Caprica. After each had understood how much they had missed one another. "You look tired," she says.

"I am tired," he smiles. They sit together on the sofa. "However, you are looking good."

"It's the wig. Don't expect it to last. Cottle says it's time for me to move my office over here. He doesn't want me shuttling back and forth all the time. I must admit, it does seem a waste of time and is a bit wearying. I always think I will get so much reading done in the process, but never seem to."

"I've had the space ready, whenever you need it."

"Now is a good time. While everyone's focused on the demise of the Resurrection Hub. Do you think they'll be back?"

"I think our new allies are as wary of this alliance as we are. They need us. They were nearly destroyed by the other Cylons once already. I don't think they can go it alone. Especially not now. We've got some of those Final Five with us, and they want them back safe."

"We can't turn them over, Bill. Once we know who they are, having them with us helps to guarantee our safety."

"I know. We have to play this by ear, one careful step at a time. We both hold cards, only our side doesn't know where our cards are."

She reaches for his hand. "There is a small chance we might."

"What have you got going on, Madam President?" He grins, and no longer looks quite so tired.

"Oh, something. A possibility, if we are patient and lucky."

* * *

"This is the last time we meet like this," says Colonel Tigh.

"But you got her free?" Tory is agitated, even angry. She is the one who caused them to be here. She had to know what had happened with D'Anna and the Resurrection Hub. First hand, not all the rumors that were going around with all the celebrating and the drinking. She had signalled Tigh, nearly made a fuss in CIC until he came. Then ran and found Tyrol; she always knew where he was - either on his new job or in his quarters with his kid.

"They," Tigh says, "they unboxed her, or whatever. She's with them on the basestar and has probably told them who we are by now."

"Shit," she says, "what do we do?"

"I'm thinking of telling the admiral," says Tigh. "I probably should've done it before, right away, as soon as I knew."

"And get airlocked?" She practically shrieks.

"Shh!" Tyrol grabs at her arm. She jerks away. "They won't airlock us," he says. "They need us now."

"What do you mean?" She holds her arm.

"There's three of us, right? And the Cylons have Lee, Kara and Sam. Think about it."

"You think that's what it'll come down to?" says Tigh. "I don't want that. I'm not going over to join those Cylons. I'm a colonial officer, and that's the way I'll die. Frak that."

"Yeah," says Tyrol. "Yeah." He is looking off somewhere, lips parted.

Tory glances at the two of them, rolls her eyes and turns away.

"Get back to your posts," says Tigh, "before anyone notices we're all gone. Only he leaves first, and the two stand there, looking at one another from the corners of their eyes.


	10. Chapter 10

He is again running and terrified. He is on Resurrection Island and trying to get to the boat. If he can get there before the lion catches him, he will be off the island and safe - only brush and trees keep getting in his way, slowing him down. He hasn't seen the big cat, but he knows it's there. It is always there because he has dreamed this before and he feels it, sometimes off to the left, sometimes to the right, or behind, always just out of sight.

Ma'am appears to his left, floating with ease. "You had better run faster. I thought you were supposed to be good at this, or have you lost it all; you're not half the man you were."

It's the same every time.

A glimpse to his right, Niki at fourteen, as she was the day they surprised the cougar with its kill. She winks at him. "Remember," and disappears like a ghost.

Close now, so close, hot, fetid breath on the back of his neck, next leap and a claw will have him . . . .

Lee wakes with a harsh hiccup. He can't breathe and pushes onto his right elbow, gasping, then coughing. It's the same dream. It's ridiculous; he hasn't had dreams like this since he was a child - chased by monsters and wild animals. What has she done? What has happened to him? Niki, now, along with the rest.

He's regressing. Dear gods, is that what it is? Have they done something he doesn't even remember?

_Stop it. Stop it! _ He sits, draws his knees up and leans his elbows there, head in hands. A position to think in, get logical. It's easy to get carried away in the middle of the night, alone, after dreaming, especially in his position. _Dreams are supposed to be your subconscious released, aren't they. So after what's happened, I've got the fear of a little kid. Guess that's not surprising. Ma'am, of course, she's there; probably she's the cougar, too. We've been talking about Niki, makes sense she would show about now. So, get over it._

He has spent his life adjusting to uncomfortable situations and he can adjust to this one. Since he was small he has been the one with the tendency to dream, to imagine, to over think. But his military upbringing has also taught him that he must face reality, be practical, do whatever is necessary to survive. He yawns. Within minutes he is asleep again.

She enters as usual in the morning, after exercize, breakfast and a shower. It is the established routine. If he had a watch, he expects she would arrive to the second. It takes him a few seconds to realize why he is bothered by her more than usual: She is dressed exactly as she was the first day - hair up, the black satin trousers. At least they sit in the accustomed chairs without that table. Is he expected to answer the question he never did the last time?

She sits with her feet flat on the floor, hands resting on her thighs. He no sooner notices than realizes he is sitting the same way.

"This basestar is in civil war with the other Cylons," she says. "We have made alliance with Admiral Adama and have destroyed the Resurrection Hub. Before doing so, he helped us retrieve D'Anna Biers, who is to tell us all the identity of the Final Five, who Kara Thrace says can lead us to earth. At least three of the Five are with the fleet. One is with us now."

He has forgotten to breathe and takes a deep breath now. There is no possible reason he can think of that she would lie about any of this. How could she expect him to believe such a story? It must be true.

"Why are you telling me this?"

She hasn't moved. She keeps looking right into his eyes. "Because you and I are finished."

She stands, takes a step toward him, leans over and reaches for his neck. He makes himself stay, stay, he thinks, like a dog, stay, and a displaced shift inside chuckles. She steps back with the collar in her hand and drops to her knees.

"I made a mistake," she says. "Natalie disagreed with the method, but I insisted. It took the learning to know the cost." She reaches behind and brings forward a gun, takes his right hand and places it in his palm. "She is watching, and there will be no punishment. It is your right. I am sorry; I cannot live with this." She bows her head and waits.

He feels nothing, at first. It's a trick. The gun isn't loaded. It feels loaded. What is the point of such a trick? Remorse? This one? She's not Sharon. She's a machine. A machine with remorse. What a laugh. Did she throw a switch, or what? After all that, she's sorry. She's sorry. Poor thing, _she's_ sorry.

He stands, face flushing, breathing hard. Points the pistol at her head with both hands. Thinks of . . . and . . . gods. His hands tremble, not with fear, oh no, not this time. You sorry frakking piece of machinery I'll blow your frakking brains all over this frakking room you frakking piece of shit and I'll spit on you and puke on you . . . you . . . he pulls the trigger but the safety's on. He knew it was but it felt good to squeeze hard like that. Shit. He flips off the safety and pulls the trigger again and blows a hole in the floor three inches from her left knee. She jerks with the ear-clapping blast. Again to her right and another jerk. She's trembling at his feet and he images backhanding her across the face with all the force he's got. Instead, he flings the gun off somewhere and it rattle-cracks across the nice, warm floor.

"I hope you're not lying about not being able to live with what you did, because that's what you're going to do!" Spit sprays with the thrown words. "You wanted this, to know what it's like to be human, oh gods I want you to know, and you can't chicken out now! Humans deal with this kind of shit all the time, making horrible mistakes, wishing they were dead, dealing with results of their actions but knowing they can't start over. Welcome to the club."

He stares at the top of her head, that shiny, pale hair. His breathing slows, grasps at his own thighs. "I never liked your hair," he murmurs.

She raises her head a little. "What?"

"It looks fake, bleached."

"A mistake, then. We knew you were attracted to blonds. My pheromones were made to match, but you never seemed to notice."

"I expect your actions overrode that."

"Yes." She lowers her head again.

"You really went about this all wrong."

"I see that now, but we didn't have much time."

"All that about the civil war and the alliance - it's true?"

"It is."

"My father knows I'm here and alive then."

"Yes. We believe it is why he sent Kara Thrace to us."

He sits down, takes a deeper breath and raises his chin a little. "Starbuck to the rescue once again, I see."

"Shall I leave?"

"You mean I have a choice?"

"Yes."

"Stay then." He stands. She is so close to his feet; he has to walk around her to walk toward the opening, and fights the urge to glance back to see if she has moved. The light rises as usual, and the Centurion is still there, silent as a statue.

This is me, Lee Adama, he thinks, this is what I do. Two little tests to begin with, one of her, one of himself, combined, really. He steps outside the confines of the room, stands hands at his sides and waits, settling his heart beat, checking both directions of the corridor, glancing at the glittering, red flow on the opposite wall. The Centurion hasn't moved. The first step left is like walking through mud, listening for movement from the Centurion at his back, but there is none. The second is easier; the third is like his first solo flight in a viper - scary but exhilarating.

Natalie is in the first doorway to his left.

"You observe from there," he says.

"Yes."

"We have one like it on Galactica. Only we have never done what you have."

"Perhaps not Adama."

No, not his father. But others would. Had. If they survived, could they be different? How long would it take humanity to truly become civilized?

"When do we go back to the fleet?"

"About two ship days, we think. I expect you would like a different room."

"Yes, and to see Kara, but not yet. I'd like regular clothes if you have them, and shoes."

"Of course."

He clasps his hands, moves his feet a little further apart. "Did you learn what you wanted?"

"We learned to feel what you were feeling. I believe you call that compassion. We learned that not everything can be defined or explained. We learned discontent, of ambiguity, intimacy, courage and honor. We are still learning."

He wishes he hadn't asked. Those words, some of them, don't belong to what happened to him. He won't think about it. "I don't want to see her. I'll talk to you. Not to her."

"I understand."

* * *

Tom Zarek slouches in a cushioned, comfortable chair in his quarters, tapping a small tape against his knee. He stares across the semi-darkened room, deep in thought. There is an old, scratched and dented recorder-player on the table at his feet; a tiny green light on top remains lit.

There are three taps on the hatch.

"Come in." He sits up, notices the light, and turns off the recorder.

A thin man enters; he looks to be younger than Zarek, plainly clothed, dark-haired, an unnoticeable type, easily forgotten.

"Did you listen to this?" asks Zarek, as the other sits across from him.

"Of course not." The man relaxes into the chair, arms and hands on its cushioned sides. Zarek looks for telltale signs of lying, sees none, and tosses the tape onto the table. So far, this individual has proved intelligent and reliable. He'll trust him with something more and see if it leaks. "I want you to call Tory and arrange a meeting with the President - in two days. I'd like to give a certain colonel time to talk to the admiral before we meet."

"That's it?"

"Yes . . . no. Anything I should know about Gaius Baltar and his new converts?"

"Not really. They like what he says about this new god, but life has taught them to be practical. They know from whence comes their bread and butter."

Zarek smiles. "You Aerelons sound like preachers."

The man returns a down turned smile. "Most of it is gone, and there's not many of us left. The next generation shall speak like the rest of you."

"The next generation. I'll join you in praying there is one, to whatever god."

* * *

It was fortunate they had jumped into the area from so far out or they might have taken damage from all the debris. Items of small mass are generally pushed away in a jump, but there were a few larger objects that were recognisable, like the remaining wing of a base star that was still travelling rather fast and would remain so unless it was hit by an asteroid or captured by the gravity of a planet or moon.

"Dear god," said Doral, looking vacant, mirroring where they had expected to find the Resurrection Hub.

"Indeed," said Cavil. He immediately placed his palm over the data stream to contact the ship that had arrived with them.

Cavil was nothing if not a fast thinker, able to change plans at a moment's notice. He had been made with this ability and had had to practice it more than once. In many ways, he believed his mind was the most adaptable, more like the humans' than his compatriots, yet he remained truest to their cause. He studied humanity and agreed with many of their military precepts, one of which was "know your enemy." It was how he had hidden among them as a minister, and it was how he would win this civil war against his own kind, then defeat Adama.

He was considering possibilities when Sharon placed her hand on his shoulder. "The heavy raider has returned; they have been found. It's just as you said."

Simon and Doral looked confused.

"I knew they would come for her," said Cavil, "and had a tracer placed within her body. I confess, I didn't think they would destroy the Hub. They must have joined with Adama in order to destroy two basestars and do this, and are traitors to their own kind."

Doral's face twisted with anger. "We can blow them up once and for all, then."

"We are two remaining ships," said Cavil. "In a fight, we could very well lose another and all those on board. Remember, we can no longer be replaced. Better we learn from the humans who cannot afford to risk their numbers.

"Natalie's ship will not recognize one heavy raider as an enemy. Neither will they know Sharon from any other Eight if she is first aboard. I and you, Doral, will follow with six Centurions who will protect us, even from their few remaining Centurions, if necessary. We will wipe them out from within and take the ship as our own. Only keep D'Anna alive; she and the ship will lead us to Adama."


	11. Chapter 11

This room is smaller and has a bed, side table and two comfortable chairs; there is no Centurion at the entrance. They gave him casual shoes, trousers and a dark blue shirt to wear, and it all fits perfectly. Maybe the ship makes clothing to order; it would be a nice plus for the fleet. He finds nearly everything darkly amusing since Ma'am said she was sorry.

Natalie waits at the entrance. "May I come in?"

This, too, seems a farce. "Come in."

She stops two feet away and folds her arms. "It is unfortunate both sides took such convoluted paths to get to this point, even tragic." She presses her lips together; it's so human; he wonders where she picked it up. "I can say that now. You can't understand how new this is for us. We are being flooded with feelings and concepts not previously understood and at the same time trying to survive . . . as you are."

"I'm relieved you remembered that."

"We have to. I believe the survival of each of us depends on the other now."

"That is a new concept."

"You need us, the Final Five, to find earth. We need you to become what we were meant to become, less machine, more human, so that we may provide the next generation."

"You learned this just by listening to what went on in that room?"

"By listening, observing, allowing the feelings, including the pain and the love, to wash over me. Everything my sister denied . . . attempted to deny. The Six generation was provided certain skills - among them are a great capacity for nuance and, if you will, at least a little empathy, in order to succeed our primary command. My sister thought she could use some of her skills and turn off the others in order to get what we needed from you. She was wrong. Originally, I feared our make-up may have been a mistake, for we are not, as Leoben says, like a river that flows only one direction. I am relieved to think this may have been god's plan all along, because as soon as I ceased fearing, ceased fighting all that is happening, I saw how everything leads in one direction."

This is all very interesting, he thinks, but his back is killing him. She has learned some new philosophy, and his body is a wreck. He shouldn't complain if it really ends this war. What is one man if so many lives are saved? Only right now he has to sit down.

"You're pale," she says, and he turns and heads for the nearer chair. She brings him a glass of water from the kitchenette (so kindly provided), then sits in the other chair and leans forward on her crossed knee.

"You are looking so much better, sometimes I forget. We would never have been so harsh were it not for this civil war forcing our hand."

"What do you mean?"

"We believed the Ones, Fours and Fives were going against god's plan when they began changing the raiders. Some of us already considered that perhaps other actions were incorrect, particularly those concerned with destroying humanity, since love with another human is the only way we can reproduce. Why would god make that a condition? For one thing, it meant we could not force ourselves on you, as was tried on New Caprica. Cavil and the others believe that failure meant we should wipe you out. The rest of us are not so sure. We suspect god has something else in mind and have been trying to discover what it is.

"Tell me truth, Lee Adama. When we brought you here, without doing what has been done, if we had asked about your past, about Niki, Giane, Kara, would you have answered in truth, in detail, as you have?"

She knows the answer. She only wants him to think about it, to admit the necessity. _So you could learn about love and being human, all for your god, so you will keep this alliance with my father and the fleet. I should probably be grateful I'm alive, that I still have my arms and legs and sight and hearing and . . . frak. I should be grateful it wasn't for nothing._ He clutches the arms of the chair as though it might throw him off. To have a reason for what happened, such a good reason if it saves lives, if it really helps them find earth, if she's telling the truth. His eyes burn and he closes them to stop it. This is pitiful. It's just the thing they would do to break him more, so he releases his hands, tucks the idea away in a corner of his mind. He'll borrow from this salvation but not rely on it, just in case. Keep playing along, but always hold one card in reserve.

She is waiting when he opens his eyes. "It was as we had suspected from your records. You have great depth of emotion and capacity for love, though both are repressed and warped by experience."

"Warped."

"Perhaps strained would be a better word."

"No. I'd say warped about sums it up."

"You don't really think so." She has put her chin in her hands, elbows resting on her knees. There is a look in her eyes he could swear is humor. He feels it, a lightening of atmosphere, and he wants to smile. She does smile, and sits back. It's amazing how the smile changes her face, everything about her, because it's in her eyes as well as on her mouth. He could almost forget she isn't human.

"Who's the member of the Five that's on this ship?"

"You remembered that, did you?" Her hands are on the chair arms now; they sit in the same position, only her legs are still crossed.

"And there are three with the fleet. Has she told you who they are?"

"No."

She meets his eyes. Now we come to it, he thinks.

"D'Anna will tell you who they are in exchange for their safety."

"Me. After what's happened."

"Yes. Your father will listen if you are the one to ask for leniency. We don't want our alliance to begin, or continue, with an exchange of hostages."

"Is that a threat?"

"Threats are what we are trying to avoid. We believe god wants us to join with you for the benefit of all. We cannot do that with threats."

"You are actually asking me to represent you."

"Yes."

Dear gods. After all that's happened, he's to be an ambassador for the Cylons. If it wasn't so spurious, it would be funny. It is funny. It's hilarious.

"Once we're safe and know the way to earth I could ask the admiral to blow you away for what you did."

"You won't."

"How can you be so sure?"

She smiles. "I know you rather well, Lee." Again, the smile is also in her eyes, and it's one of complicity.

"All right," followed by a mutter, " and Romo called me a contrarian for wanting to represent Baltar."

She stands.

"Another thing," he says. "I want to see Kara."

"Of course. Then I will do something for you if you will let me."

He stands, cocks his head. "What's that?"

"A massage. It's time you felt something better from us." She raises her hand and lays it ever so lightly on his shoulder. "It would be a beginning of trust." Then steps back, turns and leaves the room.

He turns his head to where her hand had been, breathes in. Her closeness has left a barely-perceived, delicate scent, not flowery perfume, but lovely, and he remembers - pheromones. Trust? _Don't let it affect your judgment._

* * *

They are playing every card they have, and when D'Anna Biers plays her four he is only shocked by the last one. He hadn't cared for this model as a human and likes her even less knowing she is a Cylon. Maybe it is because she appears to have many of the worst qualities of his mother: nosey, bossy, demanding. She is more in your face than manipulative like the Six model. He has had plenty of experience with both, only his emotions had gotten in the way, had clouded his ability to cope. He understands that now.

He has been told the four were aboard Galactica. All the Cylons they have found have gotten aboard Galactica eventually - it makes sense. He has been told one is on board this ship. Only Helo or Sam would likely come aboard with Kara; Helo would stay with his wife. The others could obtain the most information at CIC or close to someone important like the President. Tory was no surprise, Chief Tyrol, a little more so. Colonel Tigh as a Cylon made him laugh, at first. Until he thought of his father.

"You are going to help us, to let them come to our ship if they prefer." She is trying not to demand in the way she says this. He can appreciate that.

"Yes. I already said I would. I want to set it up though. Just you, my father and the President. He may insist on Tigh being there."

"Fine."

"Does Kara know?"

"Sam Anders didn't want us to tell her."

"I'll bet. If we're done, I'd like to see her."

"I'll send her right in."

When she's gone, he lays his head back against the chair and closes his eyes. He'd really like to be in that bed and sleep for days. Only that same nightmare won't let him. What would it be like to sleep next to Kara? There had only been that one time on the surface of New Caprica, and he had been too drunk, too satiated to notice even the hard ground and stones beneath. Gods, how long he had hated himself and her for that night, felt used, tossed aside like a piece of trash. _Shouting at the stars ._ . . . the corners of his mouth pull, a chuckle, _what a fool. But it had felt awfully good at the time._

* * *

Kara has rushed all the way here and, at the entrance, hesitates. The last picture she has of Lee has forced itself upon her mind and made her afraid. Kara Thrace afraid to face her best friend. Because . . . she has seen him like that. She hasn't been able to stop that horrible thing from happening to him. She hasn't been able to get Lee free. She has failed him. There he is in a chair, looking so tired and thin and pale that her knees go weak. Only he smiles and . . . snickers, which draws her forward, and his eyes open - they are the same.

"What's so funny?" The last word is said into his neck after he stands and their arms are wrapped tight around one another.

"Me, nearly everything from a certain perspective." He holds her tight, fingers lost in her hair.

"I frakked up. I didn't get you--"

He pushes her back, hanging on to her arms, where he can look into her tear-streaked face. "Frak that. I left you on New Caprica for how many months? Some things can't be done. That's the way it is." He brushes her tears with his thumbs. "You have to stop thinking you're the center of the universe, Kara. This Chosen One thing is going to your head."

"Frak you." A smiling snarl.

"Nah. That last time about did me in."

"Are you okay?" She has to be sure. Her fingers are digging into his upper arms, which are smaller now, but wiry.

"I'm fine. I'll be better when this is over. But something's happened, Kara. I don't think I've been brainwashed or anything like that, but . . . . I need you to watch, to let me know if anything seems too strange, if I do anything that seems detrimental or dangerous to the fleet. It's just a precaution. I see these Cylons differently, maybe too differently than I did before they brought me here. I should hate them for what they did, but I don't. They want me to represent them before my father and the fleet, and I'm going to do it."

"You were one of the most anti-Cylon people I know."

"Yeah. That's what scares me about this."

"Half the fleet worries that I might be one of them, and you trust me?"

"I do."

_Damn it, Lee, I hope you're right, because sometimes I'm not even sure who I am_. "Did she tell you who the Final Five are?"

"Four of them."

Kara watches him turn and sit down. Puts her hands on her hips. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"You're not going to tell me?"

"I can't. It's for the admiral and the president."

She throws herself in the other chair. "You're enjoying this; I know you are."

"Seeing you frustrated for a change? Can't imagine why."

"Not even a hint?"

"No, Kara."

"Let's have lunch then. I love eating real food."

Only Sam Anders arrives before lunch.

Lee stays seated, but Kara doesn't. Sam strides toward Lee. "Did you tell her?"

"Certainly not. I left that for you." Lee remains calm in the chair, hands dangling over its arms, in sharp contrast to Sam's obvious agitation. Kara has moved to him, grasped his elbow lightly.

"Tell me what, Sam? Why are you here?"

"I need to talk to you."

"Talk, then."

"Alone."

"Frak that. We were alone all morning. Why now? Why when . . . ?" What she knows comes together, a head-on collision: Lee has just learned four of the five, and now Sam is here with that question. She blinks, mouth open. Takes a step back. "No Sammy. Tell me no." Another step; her face goes white. He's just standing there, hands open, beckoning her, otherwise, nothing. No denial. He won't deny it. He won't. He won't. "You son of a bitch. You son of a bitch!" She reaches for a gun that isn't there. Then she's at him, punching everywhere, face, body, kicking. Screaming, "you frakker, you Cylon lying son of a bitch!" He's on the floor, curled, protecting his head while she kicks.

"Kara, Kara!"

She spins and nearly slugs him; it's Lee, Lee, and she collapses into his arms, still cursing, spitting into his shirt. "Tell him to go away, Lee. Tell him, or I swear I'll kill him."

Sam is slowly hauling his bloody self off the floor; Lee catches his eyes. "Go now Sam . . . later."

"No later," she growls.

"Kara." He says it so softly, strokes her hair, she begins to calm.

"Is he gone?"

"He is."

"I loved him; I really did."

"You still do, that's why it hurts so much."

"Frak that." She pulls away. "You're a philosopher now or something?"

One side of his mouth pulls as he brushes hair from her face. "I've learned a few things in my old age."

She winces, shakes her bloody hands, which are beginning to puff up.

"We'd better get some ice on that." Lee heads for the kitchenette, presses a button, a door pops open and frosty air flows out.

"Your own frig?"

"I eat snacks whenever I want. They can't seem to be apologetic enough. He wraps the ice loosely in a towel and sits her down, hands and ice in her lap, before he sits.

Her head falls back, and she stares at the ceiling . . . ceiling - is it alive? She has frakked a machine, so many times. Loved one. Like Helo. Only he knew . . . came to know, much sooner than her. What a joke, after all she had done to defy Leoben. Sam's not the same, though. But he is. He's not. Sharon/Athena is different from the rest of them. Is Sam? Why didn't he tell her? Because she said she would kill him. Frak. Had he been going to tell her then? This can't happen, only it already has. Why is it so quiet? Why hasn't Lee said something? She opens her eyes, and he is still sitting there, watching.

"This is one of those times, Lee. You always have something to say, always have an opinion about what I should do."

"I have plenty on my own plate. You'll figure it out. I do think that at some point you should talk to him. He's always stuck by you, and it's not been for the benefit of the Cylons. Any one of the four could have done us plenty of damage if they had meant to, and they didn't. I've come to believe they may have a different purpose."

"Helping us to find earth?"

"Partly, I suppose."

"You have changed, not just physically."

"I know. So have you, Kara."

She leans forward, hands between her knees. "Was it . . . Lee, I can't . . . ." She looks down, leaves the ice, folds her hands.

He leans on his knees, places a hand on hers. "It's all right now. The mind forgets most of the details, the worst of it. I lost something, but maybe it's for the best. I could never pilot a viper now; I know that. The killer instinct is gone. But I had left that part of my life behind anyway. Although I'm not sure I'll make such a good politican without it."

The smile is familiar. She is so afraid to hope. That they might really reach earth. That the war will end and they have a future. The present moment is all she is sure of, and she has never felt so vulnerable, or so safe. She turns her hands beneath his and clasps tight.

"I've never been able to tell you, before, how much you mean to me," she says.

He's looking at their hands; they both are. Their heads are nearly touching. "Kara," he murmurs.

She pulls one hand free, touches his hair, fingers linger at his cheek. "Much more than a quick frak."

He won't look up, and she knows why. She squeezes his hand once more. "I better go."


	12. Chapter 12

If he had truly been able to trust her completely, Lee would be asleep. Her strong, kneading fingers are on the verge of hurting him, but never so much as the wonderful, deep sensations of intense pleasure, followed by total relaxation that make him feel he might puddle through the bottom of the padded table. He is being cracked, rolled, pushed - rearranged, and minds not in the least. Lords, over-stimmed pilots would give anything for whatever would make their minds and bodies forget the sometimes thrilling but always gruelling hours jammed in a tiny cockpit that might be their last. Besides booze and the quick tumble they couldn't always get, that is. Maybe Natalie will train some of their people with the strongest hands; he can make it part of the agreement. The muscle in his left cheek tightens - the only tightness in his whole body - he is sure.

"You can turn over now," she says, so politely.

He recalls the dog, Morgan, how much he loved his belly rubbed. Cats don't, though. They'll claw the dickens out of you - he knows why. His palms push against the surface as he turns and meets her eyes, reaches to make sure the towel doesn't slip. Why he is such a prude now he doesn't know and is too relaxed to trace it out. His eyes close as she kneads from his shoulders to his chest, softly at first, then harder, stretching, softening the scars with oil. When she moves to his feet and digs a thumb deep into his arch his mouth opens with the exquisite pain that opens to the most wonderful sensation of bodily surrender. No one has ever touched his feet, except maybe his mother when he was very small, and that's only supposition. It's amazing. This is better than sex. Well . . . at the moment it seems so.

His calves, the top of his thighs. He naturally wakes up a little as her hands move intimately near, as he did when she kneaded his buttocks, which, by the way, had felt incredible. She does not tease, remains true to her word of establishing trust, and what he feels develops entirely in his own mind and reassures that one part of him remains . . . alert. It's also his debatable mind reminding this shouldn't be happening because she isn't all human. She looks human - gods - acts human, smells human. Probably tastes . . . off, shut it off. She is working on his face now, around his eyes, his scalp, his hair. It's so good, a very good thing, takes away the other train of thought, will surely put him to sleep if anything will. Soon she is gone; it is silent; he drifts.

She is back, palming, rocking around and around on his stomach. _ I'm a dog_. She has moved the towel down. The inside center of his chest hitches. Her hand moves up, up his chest, to his throat, his chin, his mouth. "I'm sorry."

He opens his eyes. Sorry?

One finger remains on his lower lip as she lowers her head. "I want you."

That sends his heart stuttering like a broken viper. "It's the pheromones," he says. Gods that's stupid; it's the first thing that entered his head.

The Cylon, she's a Cylon, raises her head and smiles. "You never give yourself enough credit."

_And you think too much seal the deal_. He raises up on his elbow and kisses her. It's crazy but . . . she returns the kiss so well, of course she does; she was made for this. Made, made, made. Made. Her hands are in his hair, tickling, not exactly, his ear. Her hair is silk. He is sitting up and the towel is forgotten beneath the table. She stands back and lets her satin coveralls obligingly fall about her feet. She takes his hand and leads him to the bed, where she removes her undergarments. He begins to have second thoughts until she crawls in next to him, her warm flesh brushes his, her supple, yet firm, inner thigh slides over his cock. Her smell, her touch, her lips are so wonderfully human female; he forces his eyes open to see her lovely face, eyes liquid with desire when she slowly impales herself upon him. She tangles her so very hot tongue with his; he runs his hands down her back to grasp her pulsing cheeks and thinks of Kara - the women who like to ride.

_Women, you women, Cylon or not who are the same and I let you, I rode a viper and you ride me - father did you let my mother? Do I please this woman Cylon can I or does she play another game play me, what does she truly want? Or is this a reward a guilt frak another massage for being a good boy oh gods nothing will ever be the same . . . ._

She lies on him a moment, slides off, brushes a hand across his damp chest. "It doesn't matter," she says. "It's understandable."

His stomach jerks a puff from his nose. "Of course it is," he says, and glances at her from the corners of his eyes.

"Sleep," she says, and pulls the sheet up and stays, curling next to him.

_Feet like lead, running, again. It's behind, right behind, right there. Niki to his right, "Lee remember, remember, remember."_

_Remember what dammit? Get to the boat . . . remember: He hadn't run the last time. Never run from a cat. He and Niki had known better then. But now? It's a dream. What is he running from? What is he afraid of? He's not running. He's facing it, whatever it is. It's furious and it's coming for him. He will let it in._

Heart pumping, he jerks awake and somehow knows it's not the dream that woke him. He had slept after, had slept deeply, more deeply than since he has come here. He is the only one in the bed, is that what--

A pop! It is not close, yet he knows what it is - gunfire.

He grabs his pants and makes for the door, only remembering when he gets there that he has no weapon, which calls for more caution than usual. He's pretty sure of the direction from which the gunfire came. He has noticed that sound doesn't bounce around a basestar's walls the way it does the metal of a battlestar.

He has run along the walls and peers around the second corner when he sees the remains of two centurions in the middle of the corridor. Have they been boarded by marines? Would his father take a chance on ending the truce? He draws near, can find no quick way to remove the weapons from their appendages and leaves them behind. He is about to enter the next corridor, and throws himself against the wall at the sound of more gunshots followed by explosions. This is a three-way intersection, one he would like to get past as quickly as possible. He no sooner pushes from the wall than a figure appears at the end of the corridor, one which it takes him a moment to recognize. Lee first sees the gun, its dark hole pointed at him, then the face of the Cylon holding it - Cavil.

"What a nice surprise. I hadn't realized Natalie had gone so far."

He should think of something to stall him. Is Kara safe? Is anyone alive? "How far do you think?"

"As far as bedding the admiral's son. It appears she'll do anything for hybrid children."

He hadn't thought of that. "I understand it takes love."

"Too bad you won't have time for that part. I wish I could see Adama's face when I have presented him with his son, mangled by bullets."

No time to think before he is slammed against the corridor wall, head banging so hard there are sparks before his eyes. Only it's the side of his head, and he should have fallen backwards on the floor and someone, Six? Ma'am, it's Ma'am on top of him, in his lap, sort of turned up toward him, her mouth open, eyes glassy. She's wants to tell him something. He leans over and she says it, down in her throat so only he can hear, "I know." Her eyes go blank, stare at him. There's a gun next to her hand, on the side away from Cavil, only when he picks it up he fears by the weight that it's empty.

"I knew you humans were a virus," Cavil says. "Her action only proves you are better wiped out like one."

Lee's got nothing to lose - raises the gun and pulls the trigger and he is right about it being empty. Another explosion nearly drowns the sound of the bullet that bites a half inch of flesh from his inner arm- the bullet meant for his heart. Another found the Cylon, gave him just enough of a push when it tore through the bone of his left temple.

Lee can't seem to move; he doesn't want to drop Ma'am on the floor just yet; it's inappropriate. Natalie is hurrying toward them.

"Are you all right?"

"Thanks to you," he says, except his head hurts, and his arm stings like hell. But that's nothing.

Natalie is on her knees, lifting . . . Ma'am, so carefully. There are tears in her eyes.

"She saved my life," he says.

"Yes." Natalie brushes Ma'am's hair, lays her gently down. There is another explosion. "Kara is holding back their centurions with explosive darts." She hands him a gun. "That was Cavil's."

"Let's help her," he says, and together they head toward the most noise.

It is the weirdest thing. They come up behind Kara crouching in a corridor between two centurions - their centurions, obviously. Both of them, arms out, weapons firing, Kara appearing so tiny between, a toss of her arm, followed by an explosion. She ducks, rises, and it happens again, all the time the two shiny metal automatons on either side, constant. Burn holes, bloody pieces of ship surround them. She crouches, turns, smiles. The two centurions stop, the left arm of each twirls, disengages, lowers, the right remains out, silent but vigilant.

"You guys are too late," she says. "The fun's over."

Eight corridors lead here, to what appears to be the basestar's command center where Cylons and centurions alike lay scattered. Lee recognizes a Doral and . . . two Sharons?

"That," says Natalie, "is the one who shot your father." He stares at her and feels oddly detached. He wonders who killed her. It doesn't really matter. She can't wake up in another body this time. She's dead, really dead. As is the other Eight only seven feet away, the one who wanted to be like Sharon Agathon, who will now remain unique.

"Lee Adama." D'Anna Biers, hands folded around the butt of a pistol, leans on her elbows against the console that holds the data stream. "Come here." He shoves air through his nose and shakes his head minutely. Still giving orders. He'll indulge her a little longer, and casually walks over.

"Closer, for your ears only."

What she says is quite a surprise. Why now? He knows why when she slumps forward, when he catches her and feels something sticky in his fingers, when she keeps sliding down and he drops to his knees with her, and it's the second time in the last hour a woman has stared sightless at him.

Natalie is also on her knees. "Dear god, that leaves so few of us."

Lee's eyes roam the room, the corridor entrances, and just as he is about to say it, Kara does,

"Where's Sam? Sam? Sammy!"

A moan, and Lee sees the long legs on the floor of the corridor first, moves that direction, where Kara is already running.

Sam is leaning against the wall, eyes half closed, and there is blood oozing from beneath his belt onto the floor. Leoben is on the floor at his side. "We need to stop the bleeding." He has has removed his shirt, is pressing it over the wound.

Kara tucks Sam's dangling arm into his lap. "How bad, do you know how bad?"

"The bullet went through. Need to stop the bleeding. Our medical's not so good for this sort of thing, Kara. We don't generally need it. Yours is better."

She looks over her shoulder at Natalie. "We have to get back to the Galactica then, right away. You are now, aren't you." No question, not a bit of it.

"Yes."

Lee catches Natalie's eyes. "I have to check for damages, but I think they wanted to harm the ship as little as possible," she says.

"It won't matter if it's not soon," says Leoben. "Go now. The ship will know if she can."

* * *

"All right Saul, what is so all-fired important you need to talk to me right now?"

Colonel Saul Tigh knows Bill Adama was on his way to talk to the President as soon as she finished her therapy, but he can't wait any longer. Any moment the Cylon ship could appear with D'Anna Biers, who will spill everything, then it will be too late. It is already late. At least this way he can take some control of his own destiny. What little is left.

"Sit down, Bill. Maybe we both better have a drink. Trust me on this. This last time."

"Last time. Are you going to try to resign on me again?"

At least he is bringing two glasses and the bottle over. It's a start. They sit on opposite sides of the coffee table; the admiral pours.

"Don't need to. Expect I won't have to. You'll likely toss me out an airlock."

The admiral is smiling as he hands the glass over. "You haven't been responsible for shooting any more civilians, I hope."

"If it were only that simple." The colonel downs the whole glass. Puts the glass on the table. Waits while the admiral takes a drink.

He leans on his knees. "As often as I've wanted to quit, felt I wasn't good enough, I've been honored to serve under you, Bill. You must know that. It's because of you I didn't blow my brains out years ago. Because of you, I like to think my life's been worth something, that I've done some good for this fleet, enough that it's outweighed the bad. Don't say anything. I'm the first man to admit his shortcomings. _Man . . . well_. I've done my best. I can say I truly have, as far as I'm able. I'd like to die a colonial officer, the way I've lived. But we can't have always have what we want, can we. Most of all, I hate anyone thinking I'm a traitor, most of all you. I'm not, you know, despite this . . . I'm not. I swear it to you, Bill. What I am is . . . shit. I'm a Cylon.

"Ha! Holy gods, Saul, you had me going there. The elaborate build-up, the whole thing, right up until the end. You should do something like this for Laura; she could use a good laugh." He's shaking his head and still chuckling. Takes another drink, snorts into his glass.

Gods, gods, if it only were a joke, if he could take it back, let him think it's a joke . . . he can't.

"Bill. It's no joke. I'm a Cylon. I found out weeks ago, during the battle at the Ionian Nebula. That music I kept hearing. It was a signal."

The admiral stares at him. Saul knows the whirring going on behind those eyes as the information and memory comes together, the logic. Watches them darken, the brows lower. The man, his best friend, slowly rises, glass in hand. "Frak this." He is all control as he sidles along the table, walks around the sofa, to stand in front of his beloved painting. All Saul can see is the stillness of the admiral's back surrounded by the glowing, demanding colors of the artist's battle - shattered stillness when Bill slams the glass against the canvas, splattering liquor across the surface and bouncing the empty glass to the floor at the his feet.

"I turned my son away for you." He speaks to the canvas, fists at his sides. "I believed in you and Laura rather than his integrity."

There is nothing Saul can say.

"That was my mistake." He turns. "Did you signal them to take Lee?"

"No." He stands. "By all the gods, by the Cylon god if it means anything, I didn't. I'm sure of it. I couldn't, Bill. I may be a Cylon, but I'm still me. I am still me. Saul god damned Tigh." _I am me_. Every morning he wakes to it; every night he goes to sleep to it. _I am me. Saul Tigh_.

"If I find out you are lying, I won't put you out an airlock, I'll beat you to death, Cylon or no."

"I--"

Alarms!

Adama reaches for the phone. "Sitrep." Glares at Tigh. "A basestar just appeared on dradis."


	13. Chapter 13

"It's Lee." Bill Adama grasped the edge of the console when Dee said it. For two seconds he forgot everything - the fleet, his responsibilities as admiral, where he was. He had been keeping himself in the utmost detached control for so many weeks about this one . . . thing. And now, the merest possibility of hope, the reality of what she said nearly broke him. He grasped the receiver, didn't need to tell Dee he would take the call himself. It was the basestar, which had found a way communicate, and Lee was on the other end. It was his voice that asked to come aboard, asked for help for Sam Anders. His voice that said they were bringing the names of the remaining Cylons.

The admiral of the fleet waits with the President while the elevator brings a heavy raider to resting position in the upper landing bay. He ordered a full team of marines as well as Doc Cottle and two medics, but there are others waiting around the periphery, keeping out of the way, hoping not to be sent away. The admiral is aware they are present, but he doesn't mind; they are, for the most part, pilots or maintenance crew. As the door of the raider opens, the President takes the admiral's hand, squeezes. His son walks out first and stops after a few steps, eyes searching. He is wearing grey trousers and a cream knit pullover. He is so thin. There are no marks on his face, and he smiles when he sees his father and strides down the ramp with only the slightest hitch; no one else would notice. Gods, he is even lighter and thinner in his father's arms, feels seventeen again, but it doesn't matter. Dear gods it doesn't matter he feels so good, and the admiral squeezes his eyes tight from the burn and doesn't ever want to let him go but he must, for now.

He is aware then, of the cheers and the intrusive cacophony of the marines' weapons coming to arms, of the two Cylons behind Lee, and Kara, the stretcher with Sam Anders.

"Tell them they can lower their weapons, Dad. They aren't necessary."

Does he believe him? He's been with them for weeks . . . tortured. His son meets his eyes, blinks once, calmly.

"Lower your weapons."

Kara's right next to his son where she belongs. It's what he thinks then because this is his family, the ones that count the most, nearest him now with Laura. Why didn't he ever realize this before? Kara's eyes are moist like his, but neither of them will let it go any further, certainly not when they grasp one another. "You brought him back."

"He did it himself," she says, grinning. "I pretty much came along." She turns away, eyes on Doc Cottle. "I have to--"

"Of course," he says.

Cottle glances up as he and the stretcher begin to move. "Don't even ask me yet. Not a word." Kara follows them in a hasty retreat.

The President takes his son's hand. "Welcome back."

He lowers his chin a little, a hesitant smile. Her other hand joins the first over his, and the smile grows. "Thank you."

Lee glances at his father, at the Cylons. "Natalie and Leoben are here so that we can all meet, including the three here on Galactica. For a continued alliance, so we can find earth together."

"I thought there were four aboard," says Laura.

Lee glances at her then looks at his father. "Sam."

_Ah,_ thinks Bill Adama. _My son's new cause is championing the rights of these last Cylons. Gods help us._ "How about the debriefing room in an hour. I want some time alone with my son first." _Sam is one of them, Sam, Kara's Sam. But my son is here, and he is all right; he looks all right._

"The others can't be prisoners, Dad. They're to be part of the alliance. I don't believe they have done anything to compromise our situation."

"If that is found to be true, I agree. The marines will have to stay with these two for now, but their weapons will remain down."

"We will give them no reason to raise them," says Natalie.

There is only one unexpected difficulty leaving the landing bay - the gauntlet to be walked. Pilots and maintenance personnel that Lee cannot avoid, handshakes, pats on the back, a number of female, and one or two male, hugs. Karl and Sharon Agathon are waiting at the top of the ladder, and Karl has to haul him up, he is exhausted by the ordeal and the climb and trying to hide it.

"Hey, Lee, don't you think you took the diet thing a little too far?"

"All the steak I want Helo, and it's not algae either."

"And I was feeling sorry for you!"

Sharon holds out her hand, always a little shy in personal situations with him. He takes her hand, steps closer, gives her his warmest smile, "Sharon," pulls her in and wraps an arm around her. Feels her stiffen, then relax. He acted instead of thought, hopes it's allright. She is smiling when he lets go. Helo grins ridiculously.

Once they are in the admiral's quarters, Lee slumps on the sofa; he'd like to put his feet up, his head down, and not move for a thousand years.

"Here, you'd better have a little fuel to keep you going." A nip of his father's finest.

"Only a little. I haven't had anything for over a month, and it won't take much to put me flat out."

"It's been nearly two months."

"Yeah?" He takes a sip. "Whew." Guess I've lost the knack already."

"We could put this meeting off."

"No. I'm fine."

"Are you?"

Lee puts the glass on the table, sits up a little straighter. "Allright. It was no picnic, but for a while now, they haven't been able to do enough for me." He rests his elbows on knees, folds his hands. "I know you want a debriefing, I'm ready, or hope I am. It won't be easy to explain what they wanted without sounding . . . esoteric. They have asked me to be their representative, and I've got the names of the Cylons on board Galactica. D'Anna Biers is dead; I'll explain, or we will, everything that happened before we arrived."

"All that concerns me, Lee, but I know it'll be settled during this meeting. What I really want to know, why I wanted to see you here, first, and what I really asked, was how you are. My son. How is my son?"

Oh. This is more difficult. How does he tell his father all that happened in . . . what . . . the thirty minutes that are left? It will take whatever time they have left alive. A little here, a little there, if the moments are right. If they learn to communicate better than they ever have in the past. Maybe he should start now.

"It was the most difficult thing I have ever experienced." He is rubbing one thumb against the other, forces his eyes to his father's. "She tore me down. All the way, to the bottom. There was nothing left." He looks at his fingers, the pink nails that have grown halfway back, and that was the easiest. "I was afraid," his mouth stretches, thins, "afraid I was not me any longer, maybe never again. I think . . . I think I have been through a fire and all the unnecessary parts have been burned away. Something like that."

The admiral stands, walks around the table and sits down next to him. Takes his hands in his, where he can clearly see his son's fingers. "Do you know, at one time I could fit both your hands in my palm. Your mother and I marvelled at your tiny pink nails." His thumb strokes Lee's knuckles, the lines, the skin covering the fine bones. "Someday I hope you will have a son of your own, and you will treat him better than I have treated you. I swore if I got you back, I would . . . ." He looks up. "I love you, Lee. I am so proud of you."

It is not the first time they have grasped one another, but it might be the best.

Bill Adama wipes his hand across his nose, clears his throat. "The first thing you are going to do after this meeting is see Doc Cottle in sick bay. Then you will do whatever he recommends. Everything else can wait."

"Yes, sir." Lee doesn't need to smile; the smile is throughout his body.

* * *

How comfortable to know that some things never change, even though he thought he would never make use of the debriefing room again. He shouldn't have been surprised to find out Tigh had already told his father he is a Cylon, only that it had taken him so long. Tigh swore none of them had known until the Ionian Nebula, and Lee believes him. Some distant part of Lee may at one time have drawn some satisfaction from seeing a humble Saul Tigh at the far end of the table. Now all he can imagine is what misery that man, of all people, must have gone through when he discovered what he was. It is the way Lee thinks of them now, as men and women, not as machines. If he is making a mistake, only time will tell.

The admiral had to leave the room for a few moments after he gave Chief Tyrol's name, and President Roslin actually cursed when he revealed her assistant, Tory. Drinks were served before the two were brought in. Lee mentioned how Sam had fought with them against the "conservative" Cylons. Lee used what he hoped were decent skills as an orator/politician to remind everyone how these individuals had supported the fleet all along, had never done anything traitorous, and were more like Sharon Agathon than they were similar to the other Cylons. The Final Five served a different purpose, which was Natalie's cue. She discussed partnership, humanity and love, without mentioning reproduction, following Lee's earlier suggestion. Some ideas would take getting used to, if ever, and were better left to the natural inclinations of those who were able to accept them. She had also brought real nuts, cheese and crackers, which likely went further than their speeches to sealing the deal.

They have no sooner raised their glasses for a toast to their alliance, than the "Three of Five" hesitate, mouths open.

"There it is again," says Tigh.

"That damn music." Tyrol shakes his head.

The admiral grabs a phone from the wall. "Condition One."

"I don't think . . . ," says Tigh, and pushes his chair back.

"Yeah." Tory heads for the door, followed by Tyrol.

"I hate this shit," says Tigh, as he follows. He is not alone.

Kara is surprised to find them all clustered around her viper when she rushes onto the flight deck. "Sam insisted," she says.

"Sam?" says Lee.

"He's in recovery. He kept mumbling about music and my viper."

"You said you had been to Earth, Kara." Adama stands next to the nose assembly. "Did you ever check your navigation instruments?"

"No - there wasn't enough time recorded, remember?"

"Check them."

Gods, oh gods, her fingers are shaking as they press the buttons; don't erase anything. What if there's nothing there? What if there's something? There is something . . . there is! Oh sweet gods it's all there! "Yaaaaaaah! It's here! It's here! It's here! She slides down the ladder - _oh my sore butt!_ Grabs Adama. "It's Earth!" Jumps up and down. Grabs Lee. "It's Earth! It's Earth!" Spins to the next person - whoever it is. It doesn't matter . . . everyone's hugging, smiling, laughing, even the Cylons.

* * *

Doc Cottle handed him a set of instructions on how he is to take care of himself for the next six months, "at the least," he said. "It's on precious paper, otherwise it'll probably go right in one ear and out the other. But you'll pay in the end if you don't follow this, believe me, so read it and do it." Cottle held onto the three pages when Lee took hold, making him pull on them and catch his eyes. He was chewing furiously on something, gods only knew what; they had no more cigarettes. A nerve in his left eye jumped before he let go. He also slammed three bottles of pills into Lee's hands, pain relievers and muscle relaxants, before he turned away mumbling to himself, and yelled at one of his nurses. His father would never know what Cottle found; it is one of the benefits of no longer being under his command.

"And see Dr. Odrey." Cottle said it when Lee was nearly out the door. "No excuses. She's dealt with this kind of thing before, and one of us'll track you down if you don't show." He found her name on the first page while walking down the corridor - psychiatrist. _This kind of thing_ - even Cottle won't say it - _prisoner of war, torture_. No one will.

He paid a visit to Sam, who was drowsy on morpha. Kara dozed in a nearby chair. He didn't wanted to disturb either of them so, after a look, left.

He had dinner with his father in his quarters. It was nice. Lee asked why Laura Roslin didn't join them, and the admiral said she didn't each much regular food any more; she didn't digest it too well and had lost most of her appetite. It was a reminder of the time that had passed while Lee had been gone. It also reminded him that he would like to speak with her and somehow settle their disagreement before it was too late. There were odd moments when he caught his father watching him, as though he expected Lee to drop his fork or possibly choke on the fake steak (algae, of course). His hands weren't trembling, he checked. Maybe it was because he looked weaker or that everyone expected some other outward sign of what had happened. Finally, at the end of the meal, he had to say something.

"Dad, I'm okay, really."

His father put down his water glass. "I guess I'm too obvious. It's just that I'm so glad you're back, you're really here. That's all."

"Well, I feel the same way."

Only later that night when he is in his own room, or rather a room loaned to him for the night, he isn't at all sure how he feels. It should not be strange to be back on Galactica, but it is. He would probably be more comfortable in his old quarters or with the other pilots - that's surely all it is. It will be just as strange on Colonial One for a while, until he gets used to it. So much has happened; so much has changed. Did his father notice anything different besides the way he looks? He feels stronger now, more confident than he has in weeks, since _it_ happened. It, Ma'am, since she had broken him. He has to face it head on; scuttering around the edges won't help. What had she broken, exactly? So many protective layers of anger, duty and honor that he had built up over the years, layers he had believed made him a strong, capable man, pilot, officer, his father's son. The layers are gone now, and there is nothing left but the core. His fear has been that there is nothing there, or very little. He hopes this Dr. Odrey is good at her job. The old Lee Adama would have rebelled at seeing her. The present Lee appreciates what his mind has done to get him through the past weeks and is looking forward to discussing it with her. He knows what she will think of his dreams, the last one, in particular. He has accepted his anger, violence, hate, his dark side, and is whole again. He is far from perfect, and that side will likely rule at times, but he now sees it as a source of strength _when kept in its place_. The awareness is key. To pause. To know what drives one to act. Considering what he wants for the future, he is now better prepared. Perhaps that leads to reason, a path to forgiveness for the one who remains.

* * *

Leoben returned to the basestar, but Natalie will accompany Lee to the Quorum meeting to be held on Colonial One this morning. They and the rest of the fleet have yet to be told about the alliance and finding the way to earth. Lee will represent the President and the Cylons at the meeting, as well as Caprica. He has spoken only to Tom Zarek, who made the arrangements, and he's anticipating talking to him again, face to face, afterwards.

His father is with Laura Roslin in sick bay. She spends half her days there. He hopes she will see Earth, be able to stand upon its surface at least once.

* * *

Laura Roslin dozes while the admiral watches. He knows she doesn't mind the way he observes her while she sleeps because she caught him doing it three days ago, before Lee returned. He said she was beautiful in repose, and she chuckled. She has no illusions about her present appearance, but it warmed her to know he meant every word. Bill Adama isn't one to humor a person; he won't do it to her.

She opens her eyes, smiles, stretches fingers over the hand she knows is within reach there on the sheet.

"Water?"

"Please," she says hoarsely, dry, as usual after her cocktail. She sucks at the straw like a child, hoping she can keep even water down. She grasps his hand tighter when he takes the glass away.

"Bill."

He leans on his knees, both hands cupping hers, hanging on.

"I told Dr. Cottle. This was the last time. I'm not doing it again; there's no point."

"We know where earth is; don't you want to see it, stand on the surface?"

Her mouth moves a little, almost a smile. "It doesn't matter now, not to me. Only that you get there, and the others.

"Laura, you can't--"

"Yes, I can. You, of all people, Bill, please. I'm so glad Lee is back, because you won't be alone. I know how close you are to Kara, and now you have Lee. You have to let me go, and I need to know you will continue to take care of these people. And take care of yourself."

The admiral of the fleet stares between his knees at the floor. "I can't, I can't go on without you."

The President sits up, grabs his hair in her left fist and growls. "Don't do this to me, Bill. Don't you dare, not if you love me. What have I ever asked of you? What! You want me to beg? Then I'll beg." She pulls his tearstained face up where he has to look into her eyes. "Please, please do this for me, for your son."

They breathe together. A curtain shushes and footsteps soft-pedal somewhere, somewhere beyond, a few beds, away.

His face, it's all scrunched. "Madam President. For that much drama I can't say no."

"You bring it out in me."

"I'm sorry." He helps her lie back against the pillow.

"You should be, getting a sick person all worked up like that."

"I blame it on love, at my age."

"'Can't go on without you' - ridiculous. Lovely sentiment, though, if one were sixteen."

"You make me feel sixteen sometimes."

"Me, too. Thank you, Bill." She reaches for his hand, again. What we have makes this next journey easier, my life has been worth it in so many ways, what you have given me, in particular."

* * *

"Kara?"

"Yeah, it's me. "Don't think everything's perfect though, because it isn't. I just couldn't leave you to wake up alone after all that's happened, didn't seem right." She stands up, folds her arms across her chest. "Cottle says you're going to be okay. Probably that Cylon constitution."

"That's not funny."

"Sure it is." She's at the foot of the bed, moving her jaw, bites her lower lip. "Better than the other . . . don't you think?"

"Yeah?" Sam's hazy from the morpha, but not so gone he can't catch her eyes, or her meaning.

"Yeah."

* * *

They have found Earth and are keeping it a secret; his people will be last to leave the ship, if ever. Who do they think they are? Do they think Gaius Baltar a fool? All their talk of religious freedom - Zarek and Roslin. He knew it would come to this. His people are in the hundreds now, and they will take over Galactica's flight deck. The marines can't stop them, not without shooting civilians. Only they must be quick, before too many react. Zarek is the real fool - his former henchman is now with them, and as a cameraman with one of the networks he will film everything.


	14. Chapter 14

Please come in, my Self,  
there's no place in this house for two.  
The doubled end of the thread  
is not what goes through  
the eye of the needle.  
It's a single-pointed, fined-down, thread-end,  
not a big ego-beast with baggage."

Rumi

* * *

The crowd was wild with anger. The sound bouncing around the inside of the metal walls of the flight deck caused his ear drums to ache and the floor at his feet to thrum. His mouth was full of dry stones.

So many. He had been alone in the silence for so long, had been afraid to step beyond the room.

Someone spotted them on the ramp above, "The Cylon! Adama!" Others took it up. Accusations, words, flung like chewed, cast off bones, among them: "lies, secrets, elite."

There was no time to think, only to act. Of its own volition, his arm moved, his hand touched the cool barrel raised at his right side and pressed lightly; he wanted that surface, that surety on his fingertips and to deny it. "Lower your weapons." He was a little surprised the two marines did so, in spite of the angry mob below, because he had told them to. It quieted then, like a signal, enough to hear clearly, "It's the son, the one who defended Gaius."

Another voice across the simmering space, "And our rights on Kobol!"

Lee started down the steps because it didn't seem proper to stand up here, because someone had said "elite," and he shouldn't separate himself from them that way. When halfway down he didn't need to watch his feet, lords he knew these steps like the back of his hand, he looked at faces, caught eyes. No longer anger, he saw only anxiety, expectation and determination. They parted just enough as he walked forward across the deck, then up the ramp in front of the heavy raider where Gaius Baltar stood, glanced across the man's face and turned. There was a cameraman out there perched on top of a raptor, filming. How convenient. He waited until they were all quiet so he wouldn't have to raise his voice to be heard at the back, while they hushed one another. Even Baltar remained silent.

"Natalie and I are on our way to meet with the Quorum, so they can make a very important announcement to the fleet. My apologies to the Quorum, for it appears there has been a leak, and I will have to make the announcement now. We believe we have found the coordinates to Earth and, if so, should be there within one jump."

He had to wait until the ensuing clamor died down. It was as loud, but quite different from, the earlier uproar.

"With the help of our Cylon allies, we only discovered this information yesterday afternoon, and it would have been announced to the entire fleet simultaneously after the Quorum meeting and after the jump. After we were sure we had found Earth." He looked around, met many eyes and smiled just a little. "After all these years, after New Caprica, you can imagine how President Roslin, none of us who knew, wanted to give anyone false hope. Now we'll all be on tenterhooks together." He glanced at the camera at the last, to include everyone, knew he'd better.

"Together," he said. "That means all of us, the same way we have made it through the last four years. With our losses, the memories of our loved ones and our determination. We are the last of us, and we have never given up; we will never give up as long as we work together. For together we survive. Survive in all our many desires and beliefs, survive in our diversity and in our hopes for the future." He let his voice rise at the end; he knew it was a speech, but he meant it, too.

The murmurs were louder, but there were smiles and encouragement, nodding, hands on shoulders. "Stood up for our rights," louder, "gave up his ship, rammed it down their throats."

"Adama, Adama, Adama!" Lee glanced at the upper ramp, but there was only Natalie, the marines, maintenance . . . not his father. It took a second. Of course. It was not only his father's name they had begun chanting. It was also his. In fact, it was only his at the moment. It was a heady feeling, and a little frightening in its responsibility.

* * *

"He's fine, Bill. No tiny devices attached at the base of the brain stem or anywhere beneath the skin, no sign of posthypnotic suggestion . . . of course, that remains to be seen --"

"That's not what I meant, and you know it."

"No, I don't know it. And that's the only kind of thing I'm allowed to tell you. You know that, or ought to. You're not his commander any longer. Only his father, and he's of age so stop asking for privileged information. Ask him." Cottle's fingers flutter. He turns. Spits something into a nearby trash bin. "Dammit." Turns back, head cocked. "He's just like you, isn't he."

* * *

Tom Zarek and Lee Adama have just entered Zarek's office on Colonial One, not far from the Presidential Suite. Zarek's quarters are on the Rising Star, but he has spent more time here since President Roslin has not, has been her go-between with the Quorum and in all other matters, as the Vice President ought. Zarek heads for the console at the left of his desk. "I think today's performances call for a drink. Although the show you and Natalie gave for the Quorum didn't match the one you gave on camera earlier."

"Tea for me." Lee loosens his tie, unbuttons his jacket, and shoves his hands in his pockets.

Zarek peers over his shoulder with a smile. "Tea."

"Yes."

Zarek is busy with a glass, a cup and saucer, and heating water, while Lee watches. The Vice President places both hands against the console and waits for the water to boil. "As Vice President, is there anything else I should know?" He watches the tiny bubbles begin to rise.

"Only as Vice President? What about Tom Zarek?"

The older man hesitates, pours hot water over the cup, steps back and turns. "You believe Tom Zarek has different motives than the Vice President?"

"You told the Cylons I was on board that raptor."

"Me." He grins. "How could I?"

"Only one way, Tom." Lee steps forward, within reaching distance of Zarek. "D'Anna Biers told me the name of the final Cylon before she died."

Zarek's eyes roam the other man's face; the small tensions around his eyes, his mouth relax. "Aah." He pours hot water into the cup, holds it and the saucer out to Lee, the younger man takes it. "So. What now?"

"Nothing at the moment. One of these days I may lose it, though. I keep seeing, feeling, my fist in your face."

"I'll try to be ready." He returns to the console, to his own glass and raises it.

"Why not lead us straight to earth?"

"It was necessary to get rid of the chaff to make those who were left a stronger people for what was to come." He looks at Lee. "The same way I had to be sure of a suitable leader for them. That includes my own kind, what's left."

"Why?"

"You already know, surely, after all that's happened."

"Then Natalie is right?"

"Earth is not what you think, Lee. It will take a new race made of human and Cylon combined to survive and prosper, and you must convince them of the necessity. You will be the next President."

"Those were your people in that crowd this morning, weren't they? And your cameraman?"

"Welcome to politics." He lifts his glass.

"You're the Vice President."

"Your father will never accept me. I'll give a token resistance, but the people want you already, though many of them don't yet know it. I can do more where I am, out of the spotlight."

"You always have." Lee puts down the nearly empty cup. "How long have you known?"

"Since prison. At first I wanted to kill myself, then the knowledge gave me something to live for."

Lee walks toward the only window in the room. It is fairly large for Colonial One, and a number of fleet ships can be seen beyond. "Do you claim to see the future like Leoben does?"

"I see possibilities that are all new routes. He sees only the old repeated path of what has gone before."

"I won't tell anyone about you, not unless and until it becomes necessary." He is looking out the window at the ships that seem to float there like so many glorious toys.

"Thank you. I will make myself useful."

"No doubt."

"As will Natalie."

"Natalie?" Lee looks over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised.

"Come now. You needn't portray such indifference. Don't you wish an Adama to be part of the future race?"

"I hadn't thought that far."

"Maybe you should."

Zarek watches the other man, so young to be taking on such responsibility, who has always stood with his hands empty at his sides, and who now gazes out at the fleet before him, hands clasped at his back like the captain of a ship.

Finis


End file.
